The slipping of Jinny’s hand out of his was the first sign that he had roused her to reality. Her cry, “How late it is!” was the next. And she looked at the sunset glowing in glamorous gold through the trees. There was a magic peace in the air, and a rare thrush sang as in a dream. It seemed a tragedy to move.
Will protested vehemently. “It’s not late at all. You were unusually early this afternoon. No, don’t go—you’ll wake up poor Nip.”
“Did your story send him to sleep? Rude dog! But I must go—a woman’s place is the home!” She got up, smiling, with the snoring dog in her arms, but her mockery was friendly enough: the intimate atmosphere could not be dissipated at a jerk. He was constrained to follow her, if only to precede her through that jungly path: the prospect of driving home with her still shone rosy.
“By the way,” he said lightly, “I’ve been talking with Mr. Flippance about getting that horse for him.”
“What!” She stopped and turned on him, her eyes blazing.
“His last animal was faked,” he explained mildly. “He was badly taken in, and you can’t know all the tricks of the trade as well as a man.”
“And isn’t Mr. Flippance a man?”
“Yes, of course. But—but——”
“It all depends on which man, you see—and which woman.”
“But I’m sure no woman knows properly about horses,” he said. “How would you tell the age, for instance?”