Oh, what a blessing when it's all off our hands! We
shouldn't care, even if the new arrangement brought us less."
"And it is certain to bring you more," remarked Will, "perhaps
considerably more."
" Well, I shan't object to that; there are lots of uses for money;
but it doesn't matter."
Jane's sincerity was evident. She dismissed the matter, and her
basket being full of beans, seized a fork to dig potatoes.
"Here, let me do that," cried Will, interposing.
"You? Well then, as a very great favour."
"Of course I mean that. It's grand to turn up potatoes. What sort
are these?"
"Pink-eyed flukes," replied Jane, watching him with keen interest.
"We haven't touched them yet."
"Mealy, eh?"
"Balls of flour!"
Their voices joined in a cry of exultation, as the fork threw out
even a finer root than they had expected. When enough had been dug,
they strolled about, looking at other vegetables. Jane pointed to
some Savoy seedlings, which she was going to plant out to-day. Then
there sounded a joyous bark, and Pompey came bounding toward them.
"That means the milk-boy is here," said Jane. "Pompey always goes to
meet him in the morning. Come and drink a glass--warm."
CHAPTER 10
Back at Chelsea, Will sent a note to Norbert Franks, a line or two
without express reference to what had happened, asking him to come
and have a talk. Three days passed, and there was no reply. Will
grew uneasy; for, though the artist's silence perhaps meant only
sullenness, danger might lurk in such a man's thwarted passion.
Pages:
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73