“I’d best not see Jinny—she might only fly at me.”
“Rubbidge. When we’ve made it up!”
“But I’m late, and I shouldn’t wonder if there’s a thunderstorm.”
“Won’t take half a jiffy!” He dashed into the house and seized the knife. Will was only in time to arrest his uplifted arm, and Jinny, descending on the tableau, had a tragi-comic sense of rushing betwixt a murderer and her lover.
“What are you doing, Gran’fer?” she gasped.
He surrendered the bread-knife blinkingly to her, and Will released his arm, struck breathless by the change in Jinny. Not only were apron and shabby gown replaced by the Gentry masterpiece, not only was her hair combed and braided in a style he had never seen, but the face which reduced all these fripperies to insignificance seemed years younger and fresher. The little lines were gone from the forehead, the hard defiance from the eyes, and the wanness from the cheeks: the whole face was mantled with a soft light. How shrewd he had been to suggest this partnership, he thought with a pleasant glow, forgetting its origin in pity. For assuredly this softly radiant person made no call on that emotion. The old man was equally astonished. “Why, Jinny, ye’re as smart as a carrot!” he cried naïvely. “Bless ye.” He kissed her fondly. “Willie wants to goo into pardnership—Quarles and Flynt.”
The young people looked at each other, both as carrots in hue.
“Well, Willie, where’s your tongue? Tell her how we’ve settled it.”
“He can tell me on Sunday,” said Jinny, not utterly unresentful of their masculine methods.
“On Sunday?” the Gaffer gasped.