“Easy with the shoulders!” Thair muttered. They laid it on the heaped-up cushions. Trembling as she was, she seemed to lift and move the inert body as easily as the men. She stooped and wiped away the stain that disfigured the poor face. And then it seemed the vacancy of it was the saddest look it could have worn.
“Can’t we get back by a road? The cut’s so rough?” she appealed to Holden.
The somber eyes of the men consulted each other.
“Yes,” Thair decided; “strike the country-club road over here. Longer, but—better.”
Holden nodded to the whipper-in.
“We’ll go ahead and knock out some rails.”
“You’d better go back to the house with ’em,” Thair called after him. “We’ll ride over and let ’em know at the club.” He turned to Julia, who, through it all, had stood back, not moving or taking her eyes from the shape in the carriage.
“You ought to go in the victoria.”
She turned her eyes quickly to Florence. She put her hands to her face. “No! No!” she cried with vehemence—it might have been horror.
Florence looked at her. Julia’s habit was torn away at the waist, her hair falling on her shoulders. She looked stunned, stupid.