“Well, what am I getting?  Out with it!”

“To seem—­not like my old friend Jarvis Burnside.  And—­I’d rather have him back.”

It was certainly out now.  Jarvis drove on up the hill steadily, without any further questioning.  It was precisely like Sally thus bravely to have shown him where he stood.  It was a position clearly defined; he had stood on it so long that he ought surely to be able easily to go back to it.  But he had driven to the top of the hill and on for two miles down the road, had taken the turn to the left and pursued that road for another mile, so that he was nearly at his destination, before he spoke.  When at last he did speak it was only to say, very quietly and cheerfully—­at least, so it sounded: 

“All right, Sally.”

Then he turned in at an open gate, and in less than five minutes, with the hay-fork and tackle and ropes at their feet, he was turning out again.

The drive back was rather a silent one.  Jarvis spoke often, and Sally replied, but it was about things to be seen along the wayside, or of the plans for the day.  The trip was made rather faster than it had been done in coming, and the pace was excuse enough for there being no prolonged conversation on any subject.  Jarvis was now an expert driver and by no means an over-cautious one, though he took no risks that he would have called by that name, when he was not alone.  More than once his passenger held her breath, but realized afterward that she had been in no real danger.  Then they were at home, and Sally was saying, “Thank you very much,” as she jumped out, quite as if she had eagerly requested to be taken.

“You are entirely welcome,” was his response, in such an odd tone that she looked round at him.  He was smiling, but not at her—­at the driveway before him, and she could not help noting that he did not appear to be at all crushed by anything that had occurred that morning.  It struck her that he had never seemed a stronger or more attractive figure than he looked at this moment, sitting at the wheel with the bright July sunlight touching his brown cheek and clean-cut profile; his head, with its heavy crop of dark hair, bare and breeze-tossed; his powerful engine throbbing before him.  Suddenly she wanted to say:  “You don’t mind, do you?” with a queer little feeling that he didn’t mind quite enough!  But the car was already off, and she went on into the house with a sense of not feeling quite so relieved as might have been expected at having brought about something she had been wishing for some time to accomplish, but hadn’t known just how.

But she had no time left in which to do any thinking about her own affairs.  As was easily to be discerned by the distant shoutings, Ferry’s city guests had arrived, and had taken possession of the hayfield.  From the kitchen window they could be seen, swarming about with rakes and pitchforks, like so many black spiders.  There were many more of them than could possibly be used to any advantage, it seemed; but as about half of the distant figures appeared to be standing on their heads it might be taken for granted that employment of some sort could be had for everybody.