Lucia, with her quick faculties, was well-fitted for a duplicate mental process. She smiled appropriately when Jardine made his neat little points of mirth, or nodded serious acquiescence, when his remarks seemed of weight. In reality she gave him only the most superficial attention, barely enough to discern the trend of his talk. Her interest was concentrated on the two pedestrians ahead, and once more she wondered how the showman should look such a gentleman. The road curved and doubled in innumerable turns to evade slants impossible to the straining horses. Looking upward one could see it here and there in the breaks of the thinning foliage, suggesting unwound coils of brown ribbon. The wind came fresh and free, laden with the sweet dank odours of the fallen leaves, the exquisite freshness of the mountain heights, and all the bouquet and tang of the wayside herbage. It brought the words of the two pedestrians, now passing them on a higher level, and visible above a mass of broken rock.
"Late in the season to visit the mountain resorts," the elder man observed.
"They are usually closed by this time," Lloyd politely responded.
"I suppose the yellow fever in the South detains their patrons."
Then they both trudged silently on.
The horses were once more urged forward; in their improved speed Jardine and Frank both fell behind. The driver, who had no possibility of comprehending the many finical delicacies which racked Mr. Jardine's prepossessions, kept up the pace till he had passed the two passengers on ahead, and when next he paused in the shade to rest, the stanch team, sweating at every pore, they presently overtook in turn the stationary vehicle, and stoutly marched past, without a word or glance for the occupants.
"Fine water at these springs?" suggested the stranger.
"So I hear, but I am new to the place—never was here before," Lloyd replied.
His fine figure was especially marked, the perfection of strength and symmetry, as he went swinging past, his hands in the pockets of his light fawn-tinted suit, his hat tipped slightly over his eyes, a spray of the jewel-weed, which he had caught up by the wayside, in his buttonhole, keeping step with his portly companion, who was content to pound over the ground anyhow, regardless of grace, as a man of his weight must needs be.
Jardine, all blown, and panting, and eager from his hasty pull after the hack—he and Frank had sought to shorten the distance by a cross-cut through from one curve to another, and hindered by brambles and obstructed by boulders, had found it hard travelling—had noticed, too, the figures on ahead, and had heard the words as the wind wafted to him the casual talk. He had taken off his hat, and was wiping the traces of his exertion from his brow with his fine white cambric handkerchief.