He was surprised at himself.

Andrew Vessons, who had tiptoed after them from the tent, spread out
his hands and gazed at heaven with a look of supreme despair, all the
more intense because he could not speak. He returned desolately to the
tent, where he stood with a cynical smile, leaning a little forward
with his arms behind him, watching the dancing, an apotheosis of sex,
to him not only silly and pitiful, but disgusting. Now and then he
shook his head, went to the door to see if his master was coming, and
shook it again. A friend came up.

'Why did the gaffer muck up the race?' he asked.

'Why,' asked Vessons, with a far-off gaze, 'did 'Im as made the 'orld
put women in?'

Outside things were going more to his liking than he knew.

'What's the good of keeping on, Mr. Reddin? I told 'ee I was promised
to Ed'ard.'

'But you like me a bit? Better than the parson?'

'I dunno.'

'Come off with me now. I swear I'll play fair.'

'_I_ swore!' she cried. 'I swore by the Mountains, and that can
ne'er be broke.'