Like him, Lettie had found nothing to say. Leslie, however, remarked:
“I should think mowing is a nice exercise.”
“It is,” he replied, and continued, as Leslie picked up the scythe, “but it will make you sweat, and your hands will be sore.”
Leslie tossed his head a little, threw off his coat, and said briefly:
“How do you do it?” Without waiting for a reply he proceeded. George said nothing, but turned to Lettie.
“You are picturesque,” she said, a trifle awkwardly, “Quite fit for an Idyll.”
“And you?” he said.
She shrugged her shoulders, laughed, and turned to pick up a scarlet pimpernel.
“How do you bind the com?” she asked.
He took some long straws, cleaned them, and showed her the way to hold them. Instead of attending, she looked at his hands, big, hard, inflamed by the snaith of the scythe.
“I don’t think I could do it,” she said.
“No,” he replied quietly, and watched Leslie mowing. The latter, who was wonderfully ready at everything, was doing fairly well, but he had not the invincible sweep of the other, nor did he make the same crisp crunching music.
“I bet he’ll sweat,” said George.
“Don’t you?” she replied.
“A bit—but I’m not dressed up.”
“Do you know,” she said suddenly, “your arms tempt me to touch them. They are such a fine brown colour, and they look so hard.”
