Master Jack has no difficulty in identifying the passenger he has come to meet.  His sister, a governess, coming home for a holiday, is the only person that alights, and the labourer, dressed for the occasion, is the only one who gets in.  No sooner is he in than he gapes out of the window open-mouthed at Miss S——.  She wears a light Ulster to protect her dress from the dust and dirt of travel.  Her fashionable hat has an air of the West End; her gloved hand holds a dainty little bag; she steps as those must do who wear tight dresses and high heels to their boots.  Up goes her parasol instantly to shade her delicate complexion from the glaring sun.  Master Jack does not even take her hand, or kiss her; he looks her up and down with a kind of contemptuous admiration, nods, and asks how much luggage?  He has, you see, been repulsed for ‘gush’ on previous occasions.  Mademoiselle points to her luggage, which the porter, indeed, has already taken out.  He worked in his boyhood on her father’s farm, and attends upon her with cheerful alacrity.  She gives him a small coin, but looks the other way, without a sign of recognition.  The luggage is placed in the pony cart.

Mademoiselle gets in without so much as patting the beautiful little creature in the shafts.  Her ticket is the only first-class ticket that has been given up at that lonely station all the week.  ‘Do make haste,’ she remarks petulantly as her brother pauses to speak to a passing man who looks like a dealer.  Master Jack turns the pony cart, and away they go rattling down the road.  The porter, whilom an agricultural labourer, looks after them with a long and steady stare.  It is not the first time he has seen this, but he can hardly take it in yet.

‘She do come the lady grandish, don’t her?’ the dealer remarks meditatively.  ‘Now her father——­’

‘Ay,’ interrupts the porter, ‘he be one of the old sort; but she——­’ he cannot get any further for lack of an appropriate illustration.  The arrival of mademoiselle periodically takes their breath away at that little place.

As the pair rattle along in the pony trap there is for a time a total silence.  Mademoiselle looks neither to the right nor the left, and asks after nobody.  She does not note the subtle tint of bronze that has begun to steal over the wheat, nor the dark discoloured hay, witness of rough weather, still lying in the meadows.  Her face—­it is a very pretty face—­does not light up with any enthusiasm as well-remembered spots come into sight.  A horseman rides round a bend of the road, and meets them—­he stares hard at her—­she takes no heed.  It is a young farmer, an old acquaintance, anxious for some sign of recognition.  After he has passed he lifts his hat, like a true countryman, unready at the moment.  As for the brother, his features express gathering and almost irrepressible disgust.  He kicks with his heavy boots, he whistles, and once now and then gives a species of yell.  Mademoiselle turns up her pretty nose, and readjusts her chevron gloves.