"But—what do you mean? You're not the author, are you?"
She turned towards him, but the darkness came between them, an impenetrable curtain.
"I'm afraid I am. My name's David Rossitur." His teeth were chattering with cold. "But of course I see now that co-operation, fostered from above simply with the idea of ultimate revolution, can never result in constructive reform. Now my idea is...."
In the darkness Mary could dimly discern a hand waved with passionate gesticulation. She chuckled softly. David Rossitur suddenly checked himself.
"Of course, now you know who I am, you probably won't want me in your cart." He spoke with dignity.
Mary laughed. "I'm delighted that you're David Rossitur. It's very exciting, sitting in the same cart as a real live author, and still more exciting to think that you can take him home and put him to bed with eucalyptus and hot whisky, just to show what a very ordinary person he is. Now you can't be dignified when you're inhaling Friars' Balsam."
"I've not been very dignified at all," sighed David. "And really you must put me down at the village inn. I know what these colds are. I shall be sneezing all over your house for days if once you let me in. Please tell me where I can find the inn or something."
"You're coming home with me," said Mary firmly.
The church clock was striking nine as they drove up the avenue. The light of a lantern swung fitfully towards them across the stackyard.
"That you, shepherd?" called Mary. "Is everything all right?"