That was all he wanted—so exquisite a thing is the first beginning of young love.
“Mr. Deane! Mr. Deane! Will you have eggs and bacon for breakfast, or the rest of the cold ham?” shrilled Mrs. Jebb from the doorstep.
“Oh, just as you like. I’ve told you so before,” said Andy.
“But I like to consult your tastes,” said Mrs. Jebb pathetically.
“Eggs and bacon, then,” said Andy.
“It’s damp under foot,” said Mrs. Jebb. Then something in the woman’s voice and look as she tried to keep him there for company struck home to Andy’s perceptions, and he suddenly realised that she might be dull and lonely too.
“I say—it’s awfully good of you to bother about my tastes like that. You mustn’t think I don’t appreciate it,” he said eagerly. “Those gooseberry dumplings we’ve been having are fine.”
“Now Mr. Jebb couldn’t assimilate boiled paste at any price,” began Mrs. Jebb, delighted.
So Andy listened to her for quarter of an hour and then went back to the path by the churchyard hedge and that dream which Mrs. Jebb had interrupted.
Or perhaps it was scarcely a dream as yet—only the indescribably delicate stuff of which dreams are made.