At a sign from Hubert the little fly-man scrambled down from his box. He was a little old man, almost hunchbacked, with small mud-coloured eyes and a fringe of white beard about his sallow, discoloured face. He was dressed in a pale yellow jacket and waistcoat, and they both noticed that his crooked little legs were covered with a pair of pepper-and-salt trousers. They felt sure he must have overheard a large part of their conversation, for as he opened the carriage door he grinned, showing his three yellow fangs.... His appearance was not encouraging. Julia wished he were different, and then she looked at Hubert. She longed to throw herself into his arms and weep. But at that moment the heavens seemed to open, and the rain came down like a torrent, thick and fast, splashing all along the road in a million splashes.
'Horrible weather, sir; shan't be long a-takin' you to Southwater. What part of the town be yer going to—the railway station?'
Julia still hesitated. The rain beat on their faces, and when some chilling drops rolled down her neck she instinctively sought shelter in the carriage.
'Drive me to the station as fast as you can. Catch the half-past five to London, and I'll give you five shillings.'
The leather thong sounded on the starved animal's hide, the crazy vehicle rocked from side to side, and the wet country almost disappeared in the darkness. Hedges and fields swept past them in faintest outline, here and there a blurred mass, which they recognised as a farm building. His arm was about her, and she heard him murmur over and over again—
'Dearest Julia, you are what I love best in the world.'
The words thrilled her a little, but all the while she saw Emily's eyes and heard her voice.
Hubert, however, was full of happiness—the sweet happiness of the quiet, docile creature that has at last obtained what it loves.