“None of these,” she said, “if you can get something you can drive yourself—I suppose you are a driver?”
“Oh, I have driven a buggy.”
“Well, get some sort of conveyance that we can both sit in while you drive.”
“But don’t you think we will get lost?”
“We can inquire the way,” she said, “and if we do get lost, it won’t matter. I want to have a long talk with you before we reach the place.”
They crossed the railway by a bridge over the line, and descended into a valley along which the road wound.
The outfit which George had secured was a neat little cart made of wood in the natural colour and varnished, and a trim little pony, which looked ridiculously small for two grown people, and yet was, as George afterwards said, “as tough as a pine knot.”
The pony trotted merrily along, and needed no urging. George doubtless was a good driver, but whatever talents he had in that line were not brought into play. The pony was a treasure that had apparently no bad qualities. For a long time the two in the cart rode along the smooth highway silently, until at last Morris broke out with—
“Oh, see here! This is not according to contract. You said you wanted a long talk, and now you are complacently saying nothing.”
“I do not know exactly how to begin.”