John.  Wed me come Michaelmas, Susan.

Susan.  And that I’ll not.  And what’s more, I’m not a-going to stop here talking foolish with you any longer.  I’ve work to do within. [Susan goes off.

[John, mopping his face and speaking regretfully as William steps from behind the arbour.

John.  There, master.  That’s courting for you.  That’s the sort of thing.  And a caddling thing it is too.

William.  But ’tis a thing that you do rare finely and well, John.  And ’tis you and none other who shall do the job for me this afternoon, there—­that’s what I’ve come to in my thoughts.

John.  Master, master, whatever have you got in your head now?

William.  See here, John—­we’ll cut a nosegay for you to carry—­some of the best blooms I’ll spare.  And you, who know what courting is, and who have such fine words to your tongue, shall step up at once and do the business for me.

John.  Master, if ’twas an acre of stone as you’d asked me to plough, I’d sooner do it nor a job like this.

William.  John, you’ve been a good friend to me all the years that you have lived on the farm, you’ll not go and fail me now.

John.  Why not court the lady with your own tongue, Master William?  ’Twould have better language to it nor what I can give the likes of she.

William.  Your words are all right, John.  ’Tisn’t as though sensible speech was needed.  You do know what’s wanted with the maids, whilst I have never been used to them in any way whatever.  So let’s say no more about it, but commence gathering the flowers.

John. [Heavily, but resigned.] Since you say so, master. [They begin to gather flowers.

William.  What blooms do young maids like the best, John?

John.  Put in a sprig of thyme, master.

William.  Yes—­I can well spare that.

John.  And a rose that’s half opened, master.

William.  It goes to my heart to have a rose wasted on this business,
John.

John.  ’Tain’t likely as you can get through courtship without parting with sommat, master.  Lucky if it baint gold as you’re called upon to spill.

William.  That’s true, John—­I’ll gather the rose —

John.  See here, master, the lily and the pink.  Them be brave flowers, the both of them, and with a terrible fine scent coming out of they.

William.  Put them into the nosegay, John—­And now—­no more—­’Tis enough waste for one day.

John.  ’Tis a smartish lot of blooms as good as done for, says I.

William.  A slow sowing and a quick reaping, John.

John.  ’Tis to be hoped as ’twill be the same with the lady, master.

William.  There, off you go, John.  And mind, ’tis her with the cherry ribbon to her gown and bonnet.