"What have you seen?"
"O, nothing; I've heard, I mean!"
"What have you heard?"
"The name of a pretty man, with brass studs and a copper ring and a tin watch-chain, a little mixed up with your own. That's all."
"That's a very unkind picture of Mr. Shiner, for that's who you mean! The studs are gold, as you know, and it's a real silver chain; the ring I can't conscientiously defend, and he only wore it once."
"He might have worn it a hundred times without showing it half so much."
"Well, he's nothing to me," she serenely observed.
"Not any more than I am?"
"Now, Mr. Dewy," said Fancy severely, "certainly he isn't any more to me than you are!"
"Not so much?"
She looked aside to consider the precise compass of that question.
"That I can't exactly answer," she replied with soft archness.
As they were going rather slowly, another spring-cart, containing a farmer, farmer's wife, and farmer's man, jogged past them; and the farmer's wife and farmer's man eyed the couple very curiously. The farmer never looked up from the horse's tail.
"Why can't you exactly answer?" said ****, quickening Smart a little, and jogging on just behind the farmer and farmer's wife and man.
As no answer came, and as their eyes had nothing else to do, they both contemplated the picture presented in front, and noticed how the farmer's wife sat flattened between the two men, who bulged over each end of the seat to give her room, till they almost sat upon their respective wheels; and they looked too at the farmer's wife's silk mantle, inflating itself between her shoulders like a balloon and sinking flat again, at each jog of the horse. The farmer's wife, feeling their eyes sticking into her back, looked over her shoulder. **** dropped ten yards further behind.
"Fancy, why can't you answer?" he repeated.
"Because how much you are to me depends upon how much I am to you," said she in low tones.
"Everything," said ****, putting his hand towards hers, and casting emphatic eyes upon the upper curve of her cheek.
"Now, Richard Dewy, no touching me! I didn't say in what way your thinking of me affected the question--perhaps inversely, don't you see? No touching, sir! Look; goodness me, don't, ****!"
The cause of her sudden start was the unpleasant appearance over ****'s right shoulder of an empty timber-wagon and four journeymen-carpenters reclining in lazy postures inside it, their eyes directed upwards at various oblique angles into the surrounding world, the chief object of their existence being apparently to criticize to the very backbone and marrow every animate object that came within the compass of their vision. This difficulty of ****'s was overcome by trotting on till the wagon and carpenters were beginning to look rather misty by reason of a film of dust that accompanied their wagon-wheels, and rose around their heads like a fog.
"Say you love me, Fancy."
"No, ****, certainly not; 'tisn't time to do that yet."
"Why, Fancy?"
"'Miss Day' is better at present--don't mind my saying so; and I ought not to have called you ****."
"Nonsense! when you know that I would do anything on earth for your love. Why, you make any one think that loving is a thing that can be done and undone, and put on and put off at a mere whim."
"No, no, I don't," she said gently; "but there are things which tell me I ought not to give way to much thinking about you, even if--"
"But you want to, don't you? Yes, say you do; it is best to be truthful. Whatever they may say about a woman's right to conceal where her love lies, and pretend it doesn't exist, and things like that, it is not best; I do know it, Fancy. And an honest woman in that, as well as in all her daily concerns, shines most brightly, and is thought most of in the long-run."
"Well then, perhaps, ****, I do love you a little," she whispered tenderly; "but I wish you wouldn't say any more now."
"I won't say any more now, then, if you don't like it, dear. But you do love me a little, don't you?"
"Now you ought not to want me to keep saying things twice; I can't say any more now, and you must be content with what you have."
"I may at any rate call you Fancy? There's no harm in that."
"Yes, you may."
"And you'll not call me Mr. Dewy any more?"
"Very well."
