"To think of that, and me never hearing a word!" said Mrs. James with
frank regret.

"I knew it ud be 'Whistle and I'll come to you, my lad,'" Mrs. Symes
went on with cumbrous enjoyment, "and so it was. They used to keep
their rondyvoos in the wood--six o'clock in the morning. Mrs. Wilson's
Tom used to see 'em reg'lar every day as he went by to his work."

"Lor," said Mrs. James feebly.

"Of course Tom he never said nothing, except to a few friends of his
over a glass. They enjoyed the joke, I promise you. But old George
Marbould--he ain't never been quite right in his head, I don't think,
since his Ruby went wrong. Pity, I always think. A great clumsy
plain-faced girl like her might a kept herself respectable. She hadn't
the temptation some of us might have had in our young days."

"No indeed," said Mrs. James, smoothing her hair, "and old
George--what silliness was he up to this time?"

"Why he sees the two of 'em together one fine morning and 'stead of
doing like he'd be done by he ups to the Vicarage and tells the old
man. 'You come alonger me, Sir,' says he, 'and have a look at your
daughter a-kissin' and huggin' up in Beale's shed, along of a perfect
stranger.' So the old man he says, 'God bless you,'--George is proud
of him saying that--and off he goes, in a regular fanteague, beats the
young master to a jelly, for all he's an old man and feeble, and shuts
Miss up in her room. Now that wouldn't a been _my_ way."

"No, indeed," said Mrs. James.