“Falcon, sir.”
“We shall hand him over to your care: but first—just for form—if you are a married woman, we should like to see Dick here: he is your husband, I presume.”
Ploebe laughed merrily. “Dick is my brother; and he can't be spared to come here. Dick! he'd say black was white if I told him to.”
“Then let us see your husband about it—just for form.”
“My husband is at the farm. I could not venture so far away, and not leave him in charge.” If she had said, “I will not bring him into temptation,” that would have been nearer the truth. “Let that fly stick on the wall, sir. What I do, my husband will approve.”
“I see how it is. You rule the roost.”
Phoebe did not reply point-blank to that; she merely said, “All my chickens are happy, great and small,” and an expression of lofty, womanly, innocent pride illuminated her face and made it superb for a moment.
In short, it was settled that Staines should accompany her next morning to Dale's Kloof Farm, if he chose. On inquiry, it appeared that he had just returned to the hospital with his patient. He was sent for, and Phoebe asked him sweetly if he would go with her to her house, one hundred and eighty miles away, and she would be kind to him.
“On the water?”
“Nay, by land; but 'tis a fine country, and you will see beautiful deer and things running across the plains, and”—