She left her husband at the sorter’s table, that he and Jim might get reacquainted—­men never learned to know each other while women were in the way—­and it seemed to them both a long time before she came back.  Claud asked questions about the clip, and other matters of business; and he criticised the manager’s management.

“Rather behind the times—­isn’t it?—­for a place like Redford.  I thought all the big stations sheared by machinery now.”

“I’ve only been waiting for Miss—­Mrs Dalzell’s return to advise her to have the machines,” said Jim, scrupulous to give Deb’s husband all possible information.

“We must have them, of course.  I believe in scientific methods.”

Mr Dalzell did not ask Jim how his sisters were, and how his brothers were getting on—­did not remember that he had any.  And when Deb came back, to be gently but firmly ordered out of that dirty place by her new lord and master, the latter failed to take, although he did not fail to perceive, the hint of her eyes that Jim should be asked to dinner.

“No,” said he, linking his arm in hers as they left the shed, “no outsiders, Debbie.  I want you all to myself now.”

And the words and tone were so sweet to her that she could not be sorry for the possible hurt to Jim’s feelings.  She was young again today, with her world-weary husband making love to her like this.  That theory of their having come together merely to keep each other warm on the cold road to the grave was laughingly flung to the winds.  She laid her strong right hand on his, limp upon her arm, and expanded her deep chest to the sunny morning air.

“Oh, Claud!  Oh, isn’t it wonderful, after all these years!  You remember that night—­that night in the garden?  The seat is there still—­we will go and sit on it tonight—­”

“My dear, I dare not sit out after sunset, so subject as I am to bronchitis.”

“No, no, of course not—­I forgot your bronchitis.  This is the time for you to be out—­and this air will soon make another man of you, dear.  Isn’t it a heavenly climate?  Isn’t it divine, this sun?  Look here, Claud, we’ve got some capital horses—­or we had; I’ll ask Jim.  What do you say to a ride—­a long, lovely bush ride, like the old rides we used to have together?”

Words cannot describe the pang that went through her when he shook his head indifferently, and said he was too old for such violent exercise now.

“Stuff!” she cried angrily.—­

“Besides, I haven’t been on a horse for so long that I shouldn’t know how to sit him,” he teased her lazily.  “You wouldn’t like to see me tumble off at your hall door, before the servants, would you?”

“Oh, Claud!  And to think how you used to ride!”

But of course she knew this was a joke, and laughed it off.

“It’s nothing but sheer indolence,” said she, patting the hand on her arm—­that shapely ivory hand, with its polished filbert nails—­“and I see that my mission in life is to cure you of it.  Come, we will make a start with a real country walk.”