He was most loath to break the delightful bond of the lamp-lit tea-table; he looked up with a half-appealing glance when George at last pushed back his chair and said he supposed he’d better make a start.
“Ay,” said the father in a mild, conciliatory tone, “I’ll be out in a minute.”
The lamp hung against the barn-wall, softly illuminating the lower part of the building, where bits of hay and white dust lay in the hollows between the bricks, where the curled chips of turnip scattered orange gleams over the earthen floor; the lofty roof, with its swallows’ nests under the tiles, was deep in shadow, and the corners were full of darkness, hiding, half hiding, the hay, the chopper, the bins. The light shone along the passages before the stalls, glistening on the moist noses of the cattle, and on the whitewash of the walls.
George was very cheerful; but I wanted to tell him my message. When he had finished the feeding, and had at last sat down to milk, I said:
“I told you Leslie Tempest was at our house when I came away.”
He sat with the bucket between his knees, his hands at the cow’s udder, about to begin to milk. He looked up a question at me.
“They are practically engaged now,” I said.
He did not turn his eyes away, but he ceased to look at me. As one who is listening for a far-off noise, he sat with his eyes fixed. Then he bent his head, and leaned it against the side of the cow, as if he would begin to milk. But he did not. The cow looked round and stirred uneasily. He began to
