“Then, Petch, you will be round punctually at half-past two.”
Or, that, when she did climb into the cart behind the frisky piebald, she should remark to her coachman—
“Mr. Jebb always maintained that the sign of success was the ability to take a cab without consideration, and for weeks together I never so much as crossed the street on foot. Now I consider this luxury. Other times, other manners.”
“It is so, Mrs. Jebb,” agreed Sam, with respectful heartiness, though he had no idea what she was driving at. “Gee-up, Tommy.”
The cart gave a slight lurch, and for a moment Mrs. Jebb clung to her hat, which was of the airy, summery kind which some women always wear forlornly on into autumn, just as they cling to felt in a burning June. It is not a question of money but of temperament. Then they passed a little garden where an apple tree with the reddest apples ever seen, deep crimson with ruby streaks on them, glowed like jewels in the sunshine.
“That’s them,” whispered Sam behind his hand, though there was not a soul in sight.
Mrs. Jebb averted her eyes and shivered slightly.
“Do you think it really would be taken as an indication by all the villages round that Mr. Deane was not getting on well with his parishioners?”
“I’m certain sure it would,” breathed Sam earnestly.
“Very well,” said Mrs. Jebb, drawing a long breath.