He held out one arm to her. She hesitated, then she swiftly put her finger tips on the smooth brown muscle, and drew them along. Quickly she hid her hand into the folds of her skirt, blushing.
He laughed a low, quiet laugh, at once pleasant and startling to hear.
“I wish I could work here,” she said, looking away at the standing corn, and the dim blue woods. He followed her look, and laughed quietly, with indulgent resignation.
“I do!” she said emphatically.
“You feel so fine,” he said, pushing his hand through his open shirt front, and gently rubbing the muscles of his side. “It’s a pleasure to work or to stand still. It’s a pleasure to yourself—your own physique.”
She looked at him, full at his physical beauty, as if he were some great firm bud of life.
Leslie came up, wiping his brow.
“Jove,” said he, “I do perspire.”
George picked up his coat and helped him into it; saying:
“You may take a chill.”
“It’s a jolly nice form of exercise,” said he.
George, who had been feeling one finger tip, now took out his pen-knife and proceeded to dig a thorn from his hand.
“What a hide you must have,” said Leslie.
Lettie said nothing, but she recoiled slightly.
The father, glad of an excuse to straighten his back and to chat, came to us.
“You’d soon had enough,” he said, laughing to Leslie.
