As they whizzed down the steep hill leading to the little wayside station, the signal fell. The porter, who was just throwing back the gates of the level crossing, waited for the horse to pass.
“We mustn’t stop to see him off,” Jethro said, as Edred’s baggage was got out. “The mare shies at an engine.”
“We must wait.”
Her voice was so shrill that it startled her. She added, touching Jethro’s arm, and feeling like Jael of old as she did so:
“Do please wait.”
“Very well. Here, sonny; hold the horse.”
He threw the reins to a boy, and the three of them walked into the tiny station. Edred went into the booking office for his ticket. On the platform there were several people—a few rustics, with baskets or bulging red cotton handkerchiefs; one young woman with a tight, leafless posy bound carefully round with newspaper.
“He ought to have had some flowers,” Jethro said, throwing a glance inside at the lean figure at the ticket window.
“What would be the good? He hasn’t any home. He will go to an hotel to-night.”
A wild, impotent desire to go with him made her quiver.