"Mr Carey," she called, while the sailor was still yards away from her, "Molly and I are going to change skirts. I am tired with my ride this morning, and am going to drive home. Will you trust your neck to me?"
Would he not, indeed? He was but a pawn in the game, but what did that matter? Eighteen miles absolutely alone with her! And possibly half of them in the dark! No saddle horse in the world could have tempted him now. He could hardly speak his gratitude and joy.
"Delighted, Miss Deborah!—delighted!—delighted!"
But Dalzell, black as thunder, swung aside, muttering in his teeth.
"Oh, oh!" Francie's loud whisper followed. "DID you hear what he said? He said 'damn'. That's because—"
"You cut along," Jim's drawl broke in, "and get ready if you want to ride."
Mr Thornycroft tucked Deb into the pony-carriage with the solicitude of a mother fixing up a young baby going out with its nurse. He insisted that she should wear a shawl over her linen jacket, and brought forth an armful of softest WOOL, Indian wove.
"Where did you get this?" she asked, fondling it, for she loved fine fabrics.
"Never mind," said he. "Put it on."
"I am suspicious of these shawls and fallals that Bundaboo seems full of. Who is the hidden lady?"