When he came back she was still lying there, glowing like a gypsy. He sat on the stool by her.
“Tha mun come one naight ter th’ cottage, afore tha goos; sholl ter?” he asked, lifting his eyebrows as he looked at her, his hands dangling between his knees.
“Sholl ter?” she echoed, teasing.
He smiled.
“Ay, sholl ter?” he repeated.
“Ay!” she said, imitating the dialect sound.
“Yi!” he said.
“Yi!” she repeated.
“An’ slaip wi’ me,” he said. “It needs that. When sholt come?”
“When sholl I?” she said.
“Nay,” he said, “tha canna do’t. When sholt come then?”
“ ’Appen Sunday,” she said.
“ ’Appen a’ Sunday! Ay!”
He laughed at her quickly.
“Nay, tha canna,” he protested.
“Why canna I?” she said.
He laughed. Her attempts at the dialect were so ludicrous, somehow.
“Coom then, tha mun goo!” he said.