The door was opened from the outside. Sam stood on the step. Beyond him, at the gate of the little garden, was a pony cart he had borrowed or hired.
“Are ye ready, Miss?” said Sam, cheerfully.
Corrie strode to the door, his face working with passion.
“What the — do ye mean?” he demanded threateningly.
“Miss Carstairs,” said Sam, without flinching, “is for London, and it’s my pleasure to drive her to the junction.”
“He’s mad, too,” screamed Miss Corrie. “Shut the door in his face.”
Swiftly Sam stepped inside, and closed the door,
“Mr. Corrie,” he said quietly, “I would advise ye no’ to interfere.” To Kitty—“I’ll take your luggage, Miss.”
Corrie, beside himself, raised his fist.
“Wait,” said the other, still calmly. “The folk in Dunford are maybe dull, but I could tell them a thing, Mr. Corrie, that would make them spit on ye in the street, and maybe pull your house and shop about your ears. . . . Come, Miss.”