“Oh, Lord!” said the young man, “I remember now. I should have gone on to Black Fells Crossing; Mr. Ferrall wrote me!” Then, amused: “I suppose you have only a baggage-wagon here?”
“No, Sorr—a phayton”—he hesitated.
“Well? Isn't a phaeton all right?”
“Yis, Sorr—if th' yoong lady says so—beg pardon, Sorr, Miss Landis is driving.”
“Oh—h! I see.... Is Miss Landis a guest at Shotover House?”
“Yis, Sorr. An' if ye would joost ask her—the phayton do be coming now, Sorr!”
The phaeton was coming; the horse, a showy animal, executed side-steps; blue ribbons fluttered from the glittering head-stall; a young girl in white was driving.
Siward advanced to the platform's edge as the phaeton drew up; the young lady looked inquiringly at the groom, at the dog, and leisurely at him.
So he took off his hat, naming himself in that well-bred and agreeable manner characteristic of men of his sort,—and even his smile appeared to be part and parcel of a conventional ensemble so harmonious as to remain inconspicuous.
“You should have gone on to Black Fells Crossing,” observed Miss Landis, coolly controlling the nervous horse. “Didn't you know it?”