with bright questioning. Her eyes were so different from the Saxton’s: darker, but never still and full, never hesitating, dreading a wound, never dilating with hurt or with timid ecstasy.
‘Are you ready then?” he asked, smiling down on her.
“What?” she asked in confusion.
“To come to the registrar with me—I’ve got the licence.”
“But I’m just going to make the pudding,” she cried, in full expostulation.
“Let them make it themselves—put your hat on.”
“But look at me! I’ve just been getting the gooseberries. Look!” she showed us the berries, and the scratches on her arms and hands.
“What a shame!” he said, bending down to stroke her hand and her arm. She drew back smiling, flushing with joy. I could smell the white lilies where I sat.
“But you don’t mean it, do you?” she said, lifting to him her face that was round and glossy like a blackheart cherry. For answer, he unfolded the marriage licence. She read it, and turned aside her face in confusion, saying:
“Well, I’ve got to get ready. Shall you come an’ tell Gran’ma?”
“Is there any need?” he answered reluctantly.
“Yes, you come an tell ’er,” persuaded Meg.
He got down from the trap. I preferred to stay out of doors. Presently Meg ran out with a glass of beer for me.
“We shan’t be many minutes,” she apologised. “I’ve on’y to slip another frock on.”
