The little woman brought two loaves, still soft from the great ovens and still warm, and wrapped them gently, careful not to bruise them. She handed the package to Joan. Wint tried to take it, but Joan shook her head, laughing at him. “Last time you mashed them flat,” she said; “I’ll carry them.”
“I’ll be careful,” he promised, and took the package from her with calm mastery, a mastery to which she yielded with a faint tremor of happiness. They continued more swiftly on their way.
Presently she asked: “How does the work go?”
He shook his head. “Badly. I’ve no—knack for it. And father and I weren’t meant to pull in double harness.”
“You must learn to, Wint. Give him a chance.”
He nodded. “But we—grate on each other. He fires up at the least mistake.”
“You’ve been hard on his patience.”
He stiffened faintly. “Possibly.”
She laid her hand on his arm. “Now don’t sulk, Wint. Please.”
“I’m not sulking.”