As he was standing with his back to the fire after dinner a few days later, he saw the woman passing. He wanted to know that she knew him, that she was aware. He wanted it said that there was something between them. So he stood anxiously watching, looking at her as she went down the road. He called to Tilly.
“Who might that be?” he asked.
Tilly, the cross-eyed woman of forty, who adored him, ran gladly to the window to look. She was glad when he asked her for anything. She craned her head over the short curtain, the little tight knob of her black hair sticking out pathetically as she bobbed about.
“Oh why”—she lifted her head and peered with her twisted, keen brown eyes—“why, you know who it is—it’s her from th’ vicarage—you know—”
“How do I know, you hen-bird,” he shouted.
Tilly blushed and drew her neck in and looked at him with her squinting, sharp, almost reproachful look.
“Why you do—it’s the new housekeeper.”
“Ay—an’ what by that?”
“Well, an’ what by that?” rejoined the indignant Tilly.
“She’s a woman, isn’t she, housekeeper or no housekeeper? She’s got more to her than that! Who is she—she’s got a name?”
“Well, if she has, I don’t know,” retorted Tilly, not to be badgered by this lad who had grown up into a man.
“What’s her name?” he asked, more gently.
“I’m sure I couldn’t tell you,” replied Tilly, on her dignity.
“An’ is that all as you’ve gathered, as she’s housekeeping at the vicarage?”
“I’ve ’eered mention of ’er name, but I couldn’t remember it for my life.”
“Why, yer riddle-skulled woman o’ nonsense, what have you got a head for?”
“For what other folks ’as got theirs for,” retorted Tilly, who loved nothing more than these tilts when he would call her names.
There was a lull.
“I don’t believe as anybody could keep it in their head,” the woman-servant continued, tentatively.
“What?” he asked.
“Why, ’er name.”
“How’s that?”
“She’s fra some foreign parts or other.”
“Who told you that?”