“Hello, Stanny!”
Behind Stanny, Wilfred caught sight of a taller and younger man, whose good looks arrested him like a blow. A youth out of an antique tale; beautiful, hard, and unselfconscious. Wilfred’s imagination galloped off. To his astonishment, Stanny turned around to allow the young man to come up.
“I brought a fellow along,” Stanny mumbled. “Thought you wouldn’t mind. His name is Taswell.”
“Mind! Of course not!” cried Wilfred, concealing his wonder. “We’re in luck with the weather.”
The young fellow’s face was yellowish; his eyes and his lips cruel with pain. He was mute, or almost so; muttered something in response to Wilfred’s greeting, while his eyes bolted in distaste. He too! thought Wilfred.
Taswell was glancing around at the unfamiliar scene.
“It’s a gashly little boro, isn’t it?” said Wilfred grinning. “Never mind. Once we climb the hill yonder, we’ll leave the paths of progress behind. Come on, you fellows.”
“Shouldn’t we go to your house first?” asked Stanny, mindful of politeness.
“Nope! Frances Mary doesn’t expect us until we come back.”
Stanny looked relieved. The two men came along in silence after Wilfred.