"Yes. There! It's done. Go on. Good-night."
The cart took the corner in a blur of lamplight and shadow, tipped over a large stone and disappeared down the high-banked lane, leaving Helen with an impressive, half-alarming memory of the two jolted figures, black, with white ovals for faces, side by side, and Zebedee's spare frame clearing itself, now and then, from the other's breadth.
In the drawing-room, Uncle Alfred sat on one side of the hearth and Miriam on the other. The room was softly lighted by candles and the fire, and at the dimmer end Mr. Pinderwell's bride was smiling. The sound of Mildred Caniper's needle, as she worked at an embroidery frame, was added to the noises of the fire and Uncle Alfred's regular pulling at his pipe. Rupert was proving his capacity for silence on the piano stool.
"And which country," Miriam asked, leaning towards her uncle, "do you like best?"
"Oh—well, I hardly know."
"I never care for the sound of Africa—so hot."
"Hottish," conceded Uncle Alfred.
"Oh, Lord!" Rupert groaned in spirit.
"And South America, full of crocodiles, isn't it?"
"Is it?"