"I have come to regard Bindle as a social antiseptic," he said.
I knew it had taken Windover since lunch to arrive at this definition.
As the hours sped, Bindle remained silent and Sallie was content to devote herself to the car. Snug in one of Carruthers' motor coats, Bindle devoured with his eyes everything he saw; but what a changed Bindle. There was no cracking jokes, or passing remarks with passers-by. He did not even look at a public-house. Instinctively he had adapted himself to his environment.
"I think he's the most perfect gentle-person I've met," Sallie had once said.
After dinner Bindle became more conversational. It was an evening when the silence could be heard. In the distance was an occasional moan of a train, or the bark of a dog; but nothing else. The sky was clear, the sun was spilling itself in deep gold upon the landscape. The dinner had been good, and within us all was a feeling of content.
"How is Mrs. Bindle?" enquired Sallie of Bindle.
"Oh jest ordinary like, miss. 'Er soul still gives 'er a lot o' trouble."
"Don't you think," said Sallie with that smile of hers which seemed to disarm her remark of the criticism it contained, "that you sometimes tease her too much?"
Bindle's grin faded. "I been thinkin' that too, miss," he said seriously. "But some'ow the things seem to come out, an' I don't mean 'er no 'arm really, miss."
"I'm sure you don't," Sallie hastened to say.