"Well, it can't be mended for nothing," said Jeff Ironside. "Things never are."
Doris considered him for a moment. He was certainly a fine animal, as Hugh Chesyl had said, well made and well put together. She liked the freedom of his pose, the strength of the great bull neck. At close quarters he certainly did not look like an ordinary labourer. He had an air of command that his rough clothes could not hide. There was nothing of the clod-hopper about him albeit he followed the plough. He was obviously a son of the soil, and he would wrest his living therefrom, but he would do it with brain as well as hands. He had a wide forehead above his somewhat sombre eyes.
"I am very sorry," she said again.
"I am sorry for you," he said. "Wouldn't it be as well to get out of this rain? It's only a step to the mill."
She turned with docility and looked towards the two horses standing patiently where he had left them on the brown slope of the hill.
"Not that way," he said. "Come across this field to the road. It is no distance from there."
Doris began to gather up her skirt. It was wet through and caked with mud. She caught her breath again as she did it. The pain in her shoulder was becoming intense.
And then, to her amazement, Jeff Ironside suddenly stooped and put his arms about her. Almost before she realized his intention, and while she was still gasping her astonishment, he had lifted her and begun to move with long, easy strides over the sodden turf.
"Oh," she said, "you—you—really you shouldn't!"