She wrinkled her brows in a puzzled frown, and her colour deepened.
When she was gone, Ashurst thought: 'Did she think I was chaffing her? I wouldn't for the world!' He was at that age when to some men "Beauty's a flower," as the poet says, and inspires in them the thoughts of chivalry. Never very conscious of his surroundings, it was some time before he was aware that the youth whom Garton had called "a Saxon type" was standing outside the stable door; and a fine bit of colour he made in his soiled brown velvet-cords, muddy gaiters, and blue shirt; red-armed, red-faced, the sun turning his hair from tow to flax; immovably stolid, persistent, unsmiling he stood. Then, seeing Ashurst looking at him, he crossed the yard at that gait of the young countryman always ashamed not to be slow and heavy-dwelling on each leg, and disappeared round the end of the house towards the kitchen entrance. A chill came over Ashurst's mood. Clods? With all the good will in the world, how impossible to get on terms with them! And yet--see that girl! Her shoes were split, her hands rough; but--what was it? Was it really her Celtic blood, as Garton had said?--she was a lady born, a jewel, though probably she could do no more than just read and write!
The elderly, clean-shaven man he had seen last night in the kitchen had come into the yard with a dog, driving the cows to their milking.
Ashurst saw that he was lame.
"You've got some good ones there!"
The lame man's face brightened. He had the upward look in his eyes which prolonged suffering often brings.
"Yeas; they'm praaper buties; gude milkers tu.""I bet they are."
"'Ope as yure leg's better, zurr."
"Thank you, it's getting on."
The lame man touched his own: "I know what 'tes, meself; 'tes a main worritin' thing, the knee. I've a-'ad mine bad this ten year."Ashurst made the sound of sympathy which comes so readily from those who have an independent income, and the lame man smiled again.
"Mustn't complain, though--they mighty near 'ad it off.""Ho!"