Emily. [Seizing the arms of Jessie and Robin.] The lad’s raving.  ’Tis plain as he’s been getting at the cider.  Come you off with me to the haymaking, Robin and Jess.

Robin.  May I take my book along of me?

Emily. [Flinging the book down violently.] I’ll book you!  What next?

Jessie.  Poor Georgie.  He was not courting Joan, mother.  He was only doing the taters for her.

Emily. [As they go out.] The lazy good-for-nothing cat.  I’ll get her packed off from here afore another sun has set, see if I don’t.

[George is left alone in the kitchen.  When all sounds of Emily and the children have died away, he sighs.  Then, looking furtively round the room, he draws a blue ribbon slowly from his pocket.  He spreads it out on one hand and stands looking down on it, sadly and longingly.  Then he slowly raises it to his lips and kisses it.  Just as he is doing this Thomas comes into the room.

Thomas.  Why, George, my lad.

George. [Confusedly putting the ribbon back into his pocket.] Yes,
Master Thomas.

Thomas. [Looking meaningly at George.] ’Tis a pretty enough young maid, George.

George.  What did you say, Master?

Thomas.  That one with the bit of blue round the head of her.

George.  Blue?

Thomas.  Ah, George.  I was a young man myself once on a time.

George.  Yes, master.

Thomas.  ’Twasn’t a piece of blue ribbon as I did find one day, but ’twas a blossom dropped from her gown.

George.  Whose gown, master?  I’ll warrant ’twasn’t missus’s.

Thomas.  Bless my soul, no.  No, no, George.  ’Twasn’t the mistress then.

George.  Ah, I count as it could not have been she.

Thomas.  First love, ’tis best, George.

George.  Ah, upon my word, that ’tis.

Thomas.  But my maid went and got her married to another.

George.  More’s the pity, Master Thomas.

Thomas. [Sighing.] Ah, I often thinks of how it might have been—­ with her and me, like.

George.  Had that one a soft tongue to her mouth, master?

Thomas.  Soft and sweet as the field lark, George.

George.  Then that had been the one for you to have wed, Master
Thomas.

Thomas.  Ah, George, don’t you never run into the trap, no matter whether ’tis baited with the choicest thing you ever did dream on.  Once in, never out.  There ’tis.

George.  No one would trouble to set a snare for me, master.  I baint worth trapping.

Thomas.  You be a brave, fine country lad, George, what a pretty baggage from London town might give a year of her life to catch, so be it her had the fortune.