There seemed something aggressive in the suggestion. “I should have known to lift it up without waiting for a man,” she said.
“All very well, but when one’s head’s caught, one is apt to lose it: one struggles blindly.”
“We’re not all like sheep to go astray,” she said uneasily. “But thank you for your kind help.” She jumped up and drove slowly through the gate. He closed it behind her and ran to open the gate at the opposite end of the private road.
“Thank you again,” she said, passing through.
“But surely you’ll come into the wood now you’re so near,” he cried through the arch of the vanishing tilt.
The cart unexpectedly slackened, Jinny’s head was turned backwards. “If you won’t be long,” she said.
He shut the gate briskly and kept pace with her slow progress along the leafy lane towards the wood-path they both knew. Nip, untied, sprang to fawn at his feet, and then bounded into the hedge after something smelt, and barking raucously, wormed his way along like a weasel.
“Why didn’t you come, Will?” said Jinny softly.
“Why didn’t you?” he evaded. “Why did you send Uncle Lilliwhyte?”
“I didn’t come because you didn’t,” she answered simply.