“Hengist actually looks like kicking,” said Gwen.
“Bell, get off, will you, I believe there’s a fly somewhere I can’t spot.”
“Sure enough, three on ’em, sir; and them horses is mortal thin-skinned since their clipping yesterday.”
“What a duffer I was,” said Strange to his wife, “not to look at them before we started, they are probably not half groomed and are tickling like the deuce, and I can’t even have the satisfaction of swearing about it properly, as I was every bit as careless myself.”
A quick little conviction shot into Gwen, that whatever God and the general ruck of fathers might be, her husband was just enough.
This silenced her for two solid miles. When they got near the Inn, Strange suggested that they had better stay and lunch there.
“Oh, yes, it really doesn’t matter,” she said.
“I wonder what does, in her present mood!” thought Strange, as he helped her down.
As ill-luck would have it, a wretched faint feeling she had experienced once or twice before, came on her, and she reeled a little in her husband’s hands.
He looked at her in the most utter astonishment, he hadn’t fathomed her yet it seemed.