At the station Jessie Bradley sat drawn up in a buggy: she had her place in a small convention of phaetons, carryalls, and express-wagons. She tossed her head brightly and waved her whip.
"I could have walked as well as not," said Ogden, climbing in. "What's half a mile?"
"Three quarters—almost," she corrected. She gathered up the lines and secured the approved hold on the whip. "Unless you care to drive?" she suggested.
"Not particular," replied Ogden, leaning back easily. "Quite willing to be a passenger."
He took a look at her sidewise from behind. She wore a pert little flat-brimmed, flat-crowned hat, set straight on the top of her head; a stray lock of hair brushed across her ear in the breeze; she had a bunch of pale purple primroses at her throat.
"You may if you want to," she said, with a sudden turn in his direction. Her eyes snapped and sparkled.
"'Here we go,' she cried, 'Sunday or no Sunday, I hate to poke.'"
"I'd as soon see you—unless you don't care to."