When Joanna left, he brought round her trap, as the saucy-eyed young groom was having a day off in Rye.
"How've your turnips done?" he asked.
"Not so good as last year, but the wurzels are fine."
"Mine might be doing better"—he stood fumbling with a trace-buckle.
"Has that come loose?" asked Joanna.
"Nun-no. I hope your little lady liked her oats."
"She looks in good heart—watch her tugging. You've undone that buckle, Arthur."
"So I have—I was just fidgeting."
He fastened the strap again, his fingers moving clumsily and slowly. It struck her that he was trying to gain time, that he wanted to tell her something.
"Anything the matter, Arthur?"