She unlinked her arm from that of her companion and came curtseying to Arminell, who saw that she wore a hideous crude green kerchief, and in her bonnet, magenta bows.
"Do you want me?" she asked coldly. The unæsthetic colours offended her.
"Please, my lady!"
"I am not 'my lady.'"
Joan was abashed, and retreated a step.
"I am Miss Inglett. What do you want?"
"I was going to make so bold, my la—I mean, miss——." Joan became crimson with shame at so nearly transgressing again. "This is Samuel Ceely."
Arminell nodded. She was impatient, and wanted to be at home. She looked at the man whose pale eyes quivered.
"Is he your husband?" asked Arminell.
"No, miss, not exactly. Us have been keeping company twenty years—no more. How many years is it since us first took up wi' each other, Samuel?"
"Nigh on twenty-two. Twenty-two."
"Go along, Samuel, not so much as that. Well, miss, us knowed each other when Samuel was a desperate wicked (i.e. lively) chap. Then Samuel was keeper at the park. There was some misunderstanding. The head-keeper was to blame and laid it on Samuel. He's told me so scores o' times. Then came his first accident. When was that, Samuel?"
"When I shooted my hand away? Nineteen years come next Michaelmas."
"Were you keeper, then?" asked Arminell.
"No, miss, not exactly."
"Then, how came you with the gun?"
"By accident, quite by accident."
Joan hastily interfered. It would not do to enquire too closely what he was doing on that occasion.
