“Good afternoon. Are you waiting for my brother? Do you know when he’ll be in?”
He rose to greet her, and as they shook hands she realised what a shadow his inferiority was. He stood before her six feet high, erect, sun-burned—his thick hair and bright eyes proclaiming his health, his good clothes proclaiming his prosperity, a certain alert and simple air of confidence speaking of a life free from conflict and burden.
“Mr. Alard made an appointment for three. But they tell me he’s gone to Canterbury.”
“It’s a shame to keep you waiting. You’re busy, I expect.”
“Not so terrible—and it’s the first time he’s done it. I reckon something’s gone wrong with the car.”
“He hasn’t got the car—Mrs. Alard is out in it. Perhaps he’s missed his train.”
“If he’s done that he won’t be here for some time, and I can’t afford to wait much longer. I’ve a man coming to Fourhouses about some pigs after tea.”
“I expect there’s a time-table somewhere—let’s look.”
She rummaged among the papers at the top of the desk—auction catalogues, advertisements for cattle foods and farm implements—and at last drew out a local time-table. Their heads bent over it together, and she became conscious of a scent as of straw and clean stables coming from his clothes. She groped among the pages not knowing her way, and then noticed that his hands were restless as if his greater custom were impatient of her ignorance.
“No—it’s page sixty-four—I remember ... two pages back ... no, not there—you’ve missed it.”