“Indeed!”
“Yes. The dairyman has got rid of her.”
“And you!”
“I don’t drink, and I bain’t in a decline. But—I am no great things at singing afore breakfast now!”
“How is that? Do you remember how neatly you used to turn ‘ ’Twas down in Cupid’s Gardens’ and ‘The Tailor’s Breeches’ at morning milking?”
“Ah, yes! When you first came, sir, that was. Not when you had been there a bit.”
“Why was that falling-off?”
Her black eyes flashed up to his face for one moment by way of answer.
“Izz!—how weak of you—for such as I!” he said, and fell into reverie. “Then—suppose I had asked you to marry me?”
“If you had I should have said ‘Yes,’ and you would have married a woman who loved ’ee!”
“Really!”
“Down to the ground!” she whispered vehemently. “O my God! did you never guess it till now!”
By-and-by they reached a branch road to a village.
“I must get down. I live out there,” said Izz abruptly, never having spoken since her avowal.