She stood by the step and looked up at him. "I'm very well. I'm glad you knew me. It's three years."
"And your hair is up."
"Miriam and I are twenty," she said gravely, and he laughed.
The horse shook himself and set the dog-cart swaying; the jingle of his bit went adventurously across the moor; heather-stalks scratched each other in the wind.
"You haven't lighted your lamps," Helen said. "Somebody might run into you."
"They might." He jumped down and fumbled for his matches. "The comfort is that we're not likely to do it to any one, at our pace. When I've made my fortune I shall buy a horse from George Halkett, one that will go fast and far."
"But I like this one," said Helen. "We used to watch for him when we had measles. He's mixed up with everything. Don't have another one."
"The fortune's still to make," he said. He had lighted the nearer lamp and Helen's slim figure had become a thing of shadows. He took the basket from her and put it under the seat. She was staring over the horse's back.
"There was a thing we used to do. We had bets about Dr. Mackenzie's ties, what colour they were; but we never won or lost, because we never saw them. His beard was so big. And once Miriam pretended there was a huge spider on the ceiling, but he wouldn't look up, though she screamed. He told her not to be a silly little girl. So we never saw them."
"I'm not surprised," the young doctor said. "He didn't wear them. What was the use? He was a practical man."