“Flints! They leave me a bottle at the warren end. You know, where I met you!”
But he was discouraged.
She poured out the tea, poising the cream-jug.
“No milk,” he said; then he seemed to hear a noise, and looked keenly through the doorway.
“ ’Appen we’d better shut,” he said.
“It seems a pity,” she replied. “Nobody will come, will they?”
“No unless it’s one in a thousand, but you never know.”
“And even then it’s no matter,” she said. “It’s only a cup of tea. Where are the spoons?”
He reached over, and pulled open the table drawer. Connie sat at table in the sunshine of the doorway.
“Flossie!” he said to the dog, who was lying on a little mat at the stair foot. “Go an’ hark, hark!”
He lifted his finger, and his “hark!” was very vivid. The dog trotted out to reconnoitre.
“Are you sad today?” she asked him.
He turned his blue eyes quickly, and gazed direct on her.
“Sad! no, bored! I had to go getting summonses for two poachers I caught, and oh well, I don’t like people.”
He spoke cold, good English, and there was anger in his voice.
“Do you hate being a gamekeeper?” she asked.