"The old man's in bed, I reckon. I saw the light in his window."
"You've had a wet tramp of it," was all she found to reply, though aware that the speech was inconsequent and trivial.
"Damnably. Left the coach at Fiddler's Cross, and trudged down across the fields. We were soaked enough on the coach, though, and couldn't get much worse."
"We?"
"Why, you don't suppose I was the only passenger by the coach, eh?" he put in quickly.
"No, I forgot."
There was an awkward silence, and William's eyes travelled round the kitchen till they lit on the kettle standing by the hearthstone. "Got any rum in the cupboard?" While she was getting it out, he took off his cap and great-coat, hung them up behind the door, and, pulling the small table close to the fire, sat beside it, toasting his knees. 'Lizabeth set bottle and glass before him, and stood watching as he mixed the stuff.
"So you're only a private."
William set down the kettle with some violence.
"You still keep a cursedly rough tongue, I notice."