Lord, what a boy 'e was! Swept you
off your feet, like. 'E wasn't the only one. I'd got a way with me, I
suppose. Anyhow, the men seemed to think so. There was always a few
'anging about. Like flies round a 'oney-pot, Mother used to say." She
giggled. "But 'e wouldn't take No for an answer. And I didn't want to
give it 'im, neither. I was gone on 'im, right enough. No use saying I
wasn't."
"You must be glad you didn't say No," suggested Joan.
"Yes," she answered, "'E's got on. I always think of that little poem,
'Lord Burleigh,'" she continued; "whenever I get worrying about myself.
Ever read it?"
"Yes," answered Joan. "He was a landscape painter, wasn't he?"
"That's the one," said Mrs. Phillips. "I little thought I was letting
myself in for being the wife of a big pot when Bob Phillips came along in
'is miner's jacket."
"You'll soon get used to it," Joan told her. "The great thing is not to
be afraid of one's fate, whatever it is; but just to do one's best." It
was rather like talking to a child.
"You're the right sort to put 'eart into a body.
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