“Folk have it you’re feared of a marsh-farm,” the other said indifferently. “Over much water about—sets you dreaming-like! It’s only a dowly sort of a night. You’d best to see to your lamps. I’ll fix yon far gate for you. It’s a trick o’ swinging.”
He rose and went out, but not before he heard Brack beg the girl for a meeting at the café in Witham, with a ride in the car to follow. As a preliminary canter, he cajoled her into letting him run her to the far gate, just to show he was to be trusted. She came, to his surprise, but when he would have taken her hand in farewell, she had already melted into shadow behind the car, and the gate, under Lup’s ruthless propulsion, was closing steadily upon him. To save his wings he cleared quickly, his fetich of gentility forcing him to shout a cheerful gratitude he was very far from feeling. Well, she would drive with him, yet; though after a fashion of which he could not dream.
The night was drear. The dark had none of the velvet comfort that goes with the soft blackness before the rising of the moon. Its touch was harsh, its suggestion sinister. The elm over the gate creaked with rheumatic movement, while the brittle autumn leaves whispered restlessly, like sleepers too tired to be still. The couple stayed beneath.
“You’ll be meeting him, likely?” Lup asked suddenly, with no hint of jealousy or vexation in his voice. He had taken his dismissal, and had no intention of presuming on old rights.
“Not I!” Francey answered, with a touch of impatience. “Why, they say he takes a different girl to the café every week! The men in the smoke-room run a sweep as to which it will be! I came down in the car for fear you got across with him. He was a bit above himself to-night, our friend Brack.”
“You were getting on with him rarely at supper.”
“Yes.” She fell thoughtful. “I can talk to him, but that’s all. It’s like playing a game with somebody of your own form for the sheer pleasure of being in sympathy with that side of them. You may not give a snap of the fingers for them otherwise, but at the moment it doesn’t count. You don’t feel like that, do you?”
“No,” Lup said simply. “I like folks, or I can’t abide them. I’m keen to clap eyes on them and have a crack, or else I want no dealings with them whatever. I’ll not drink with them, nor sell with them, nor pass the time o’ day unless I’m put to it. I’ve no use for them at all.”
“That’s simple, Lup, but it’s blind—blind and narrow! Folk are not all white or black; they’ve different sides, different shades. You can pick out the one you want, and leave the rest. Even Brack has his points.”
“Like enough,” he answered carelessly. “He’s welcome to them as long as he keeps out of my road——” and she laughed a little and was silent. Brack’s “points” did not interest her overmuch, either.