“You’ll have to stand on the table to reach me,” he said, looking down
with amused indulgence.
“As you are so impertinent you can go dusty,” and I tossed the brush
away.
The evening was balmy, so I invited him into the garden. He threw his
handkerchief over my chest, saying I might catch cold, but I scouted
the idea.
We wandered into an arbour covered with wistaria, banksia, and Marechal
Niel roses, and I made him a buttonhole.
A traveller pulled rein in the roadway, and, dismounting, threw his
bridle over a paling of the garden fence while he went inside to try
and buy a loaf of bread.
I jumped up, frightening the horse so that it broke away, pulling off
the paling in the bridle-rein. I ran to bring a hammer to repair the
damage. Mr Beecham caught the horse while I attempted to drive the nail
into the fence. It was a futile attempt. I bruised my fingers. He took
the hammer from me, and fixing the paling in its place with a couple of
well-aimed blows, said laughingly:
“You drive a nail! You couldn’t expect to do anything. You’re only a
girl. Girls are the helplessest, uselessest, troublesomest little
creatures in the world. All they’re good for is to torment and pester a
fellow.”