She turned and faced him, with her cheeks like rouged cheeks and her eyes like polished, many-faceted diamonds.
“There is really no need for you to go,” she said unsteadily “Edred wouldn’t mind. Let Daborn drive us. You know you had an appointment at the Flagon House.”
“But that was this morning. Of course I’ll come. Be quick and get your hat on.”
She went up the shallow stairs, woe at her wavering, passionate heart. It was no good; he must go alone. It was far better that he should go alone.
“Edred can sit on the box with me. The wagonette is half filled up with luggage,” Jethro said, as she came out of the gate.
“We can manage very well behind. Can’t we?” She turned, trembling, to Edred, who was digging at his shoes with the point of his cane.
“Then jump in.” Jethro had the reins in his hand.
They flashed along the white roads. She and Edred kept their hands clasped under the summer rug of Holland. Once she bent forward, first looking cautiously at the figure on the box, and shook her head, and whispered:
“I can’t do it. You see he would come.”
Now and then Jethro, by a flick of his whip, pointed out some feature of great interest—to him: another farmer’s hay or cattle, a badly tilled field, a line of old cottages which he had been renovating—putting slate roofs in place of thatch and square panes of glass instead of lead lights. Those cottages were for Pamela; the rent would be her pin money.