“I’ll just step out now and say good afternoon to your uncle,” said Brown.
Captain Vincey rose politely, dropping his helmet and stick.
“Wish you—besht—short of trip,” he said.
He was perfectly aware that he was swaying on his feet and speaking indistinctly, and that his niece and Mr. Brown were both aware of it; but none of them felt constrained or embarrassed. Captain Vincey’s little weakness was simply to be taken for granted.
The hack driver took it for granted. He helped the captain into the carriage—carriages are the only vehicles in Port Linton—with a grave and sympathetic air. Joey climbed in on the other side, and they set off. Every one who saw them took it for granted.
“There goes Vincey—tight again! Joey’s taking him home.”
They drove through the little town and out into the country, along the white road lined with oleanders, rose pink, creamy white, and scarlet, under the blue, blue sky. When she had first come here, this loveliness had stirred Joey to delight, but not any longer. She dare not be stirred now. She saw before her a way interminably long and weary, and she went forward in a sort of blindness, not stopping, not thinking, only enduring.
The carriage drew up before a little house standing on a hill, and the driver got down to assist the captain. He had a great deal of trouble, for Vincey was a big man and he a small one.
Joey picked up the helmet and stick from the road, and followed them to the house. Mrs. Vincey opened the door and received her son, and Joey paid the driver. All taken for granted!
“Your Uncle James says he doesn’t care for any tea. It’s this heat.”