She had half a mind to tell him of it, particularly as she noticed also that his throat below the line of sunburn disclosed by his open collar was quite white, and his grimy hands well made.

She was wondering whether he would be affronted if she said in her politest way, "I beg your pardon, but do you know you have quite accidentally got something on your face," and offer her handkerchief, which, of course, he would decline, when her eye fell on the steam-engine.
"How odd! Do you use that on the farm ?" "No,"-- he smiled here, the smudge accenting it and setting off his white teeth in a Christy Minstrel fashion that exasperated her--no, although it COULD be used, and had been.

But it was his first effort, made two years ago, when he was younger and more inexperienced.

It was a rather rough thing, she could see--but he had to make it at odd times with what iron he could pick up or pay for, and at different forges where he worked.
She begged his pardon--where-- WHERE HE WORKED.
Ah, then he was the machinist or engineer here?
No, he worked here just like the others, only he was allowed to put up a forge while the grain was green, and have his bench in consideration of the odd jobs he could do in the way of mending tools, etc.

There was a heap of mending and welding to do--she had no idea how quickly agricultural machines got out of order! He had done much of his work on the steam-engine on moonlit nights.