Joses's cunning was returning to reinforce his doubtful heart.
"That's Heart of Oak, isn't it?" he asked.
"Is it?" said the young man.
"The model polo pony," continued Joses. "Refused £600 for him at Islington, didn't you? And I don't blame you. You're rich, we all know, Mr. Silver. £600's no more to you than sixpence to me. But there's the pony! You can't replace him. Pity if he got away here on the edge of the cliff and all."
For the second time that morning Joses's luck deserted him.
"I'll hold your pony," said a deep voice from behind.
The fat man turned.
Boy Woodburn stood behind him.
Fresh from the sea, her hair in short, thick plaits of gold, dark and wet and bare; with the eyes of a sword and the colour of an apple-blossom; the brine upon her and the brown of wind and sun; in her breeches, boots, and jersey, her big dog straining on his lead, she looked like Diana turned post-boy.
"Thank you," said the young man, handing over his pony.