“I made no appointment.”
“I’m not saying you did, boy. Don’t be nasty about it. I mean you didn’t want to answer the—unknown person’s summons—shall I put it that way?”
“No,” said Joe.
“What was the deterring motive?” asked Albert, who was now lying on his back in bed.
“Oh,” said Joe, suddenly looking round rather haughtily. “I didn’t want to.” He had a well-balanced head, and could take on a sudden distant bearing.
“Didn’t want to—didn’t cotton on, like. Well—they be artful, the women—” he mimicked his landlord. “Come on into bed, boy. Don’t loiter about as if you’d lost something.”
Albert turned over, to sleep.
On Monday Miss Stokes turned up as usual, striding beside her team. Her “whoa!” was resonant and challenging, she looked up at the truck as her steeds came to a standstill. Joe had turned aside, and had his face averted from her. She glanced him over—save for his slender succulent tenderness she would have despised him. She sized him up in a steady look. Then she turned to Albert, who was looking down at her and smiling in his mischievous turn. She knew his aspects by now. She looked straight back at him, though her eyes were hot. He saluted her.
“Beautiful morning, Miss Stokes.”
“Very!” she replied.