"What do you call him, George?" she said again, and tapped his boot.
"'Charlie'—this one."
She laughed. "You choose dull names. Is he as wicked as Daisy?"
"Nothing like."
"Why did you get him, then?"
"I want him for hard work."
"I believe you're lazy. If you don't walk you'll get fat. You're the kind of man that does."
"Perhaps, but that's a long way off. Riding is hard work enough and my father was a fine man up to sixty."
A thin shock of fear ran through her at the remembrance of old Halkett's ruined shape. "I was always frightened of him," she said in a small voice, and she looked at George as though she asked for reassurance. There was a cold grey light on the moor; darkness was not far off and it held a chill wind in leash.
"Do you wish he wasn't dead?" she whispered.