full as our eyes, noses, and mouths are with the pricking, irritating hay-dust, we are still able to draw breath and make ourselves heard.
In the distance are faintly audible the shouts of the hay-makers and the voices of the maid-servants, with which latter this period appears to be one of flirtation and pleasure; shaking grass at the men's heels seeming to please them infinitely better than shaking carpets in each other's faces.
"It is not very comfortable," says George, "but I am glad weare buried, because I shall be able to talk to you."
"If you are going to take advantage of my not being able to run away from you, to say things I don't want to hear," I say, with a dignity that is much marred by a tremendous sneeze in its middle, "I consider it mean of you."
"I don't think I have bothered you much lately," he says, and through all the hay his voice has a hurt ring in it.
"Indeed you have not," I say, compunctiously; and indeed, since I gave him a certain answer to a certain question, asked doubtfully a year ago, he has not troubled me with one word of love, entreaty, or anything else but real friendliness; "only you have looked so sober lately, George, as though you were going to read me a lecture———"
"Would it do you any good if I did?"
"I don't know. One thing I can tell you though, you will never get a better chance of making me listen to you than you have now."
There is a pause and a faint windy murmur; I think George is sighing.
"Nell," he says presently, and something in his voice informs me that he is going to disburthen himself of the matter that has been oppressing him lately, "I wish you would not have anything to do with Mrs. Vasher."
