“So I do—I’m an Essex man, even though I mayn’t look it, having been half round the world.” “Have you now? Well, it’s the big cities that are dangerous, Gran’fer says.” “Maybe he’s right,” he admitted, wincing a little before the candid grey eyes. “But don’t you understand that a woman carrier is—” again he toned down his word—“outlandish.” Her amusement danced in her eyes. “Inlandish, I suppose you mean.” “Don’t laugh,” he said, forgetting that the unrevealed Will had no right to that tone. “You know it’s an unwomanly occupation.” “Laughing?” “You know what I mean. For one thing a woman can’t know much about horses—and she oughtn’t to have to do with ’em anyhow—it’s not natural.” “May she have to do with donkeys?” Jinny inquired sweetly. He frowned. “Chaff’s no good.” “But I never give my horse any—do I, Methusalem dear?” Such word-mockery was bewildering to his simpler brain. He opened his mouth, but nothing came, and his vexation only increased for finding no vent. “May she have to do with pigs?” queried Jinny again. “Pigs are at home,” he conceded. “Not always,” she said demurely. “I meet lots on this very road.” “And you might meet worse than pigs on a lonely road like this—you might meet men——” “Like I’ve met one now.” “Yes, but it happens to be me!” he said, again all but forgetting her ignorance of his identity. “Usually it would be dangerous.” “Well, but wouldn’t it be just as dangerous for a male carrier?” “Not at all. He can fight.” “And if he met a woman?” she said slyly. “There’s no danger in a woman.” “Then why are you running away from Miss Flippance?” “Miss Flippance!” he cried in angry astonishment. “Who says I’m running away from Miss Flippance?” “Well, you’ve run from her to me. And if you say you weren’t running after me, you must have been running away from her.” “Don’t you try to bamboozle me. I tell you I’ve been half round the world, and nowhere have I seen a woman carrier.” “If you’d ha’ stayed at home you would have,” said Jinny. “So it seems. And in America there are those Bloomerites—come over here, too, I hear, nowadays, the hussies. Want to wear the breeches.” “Do they?” inquired Jinny with genuine interest. “I’ve often thought it would be more convenient for me jumping up and down, and there would be yards of stuff less. Some of those Chipstone ladies quite scavenge the streets with their long skirts, padded out by all those petticoats, don’t you think?” He grew almost as auburn as his hair: such secrets of the toilette, babbled by a young girl he still thought good at heart, outraged his sense of decorum. “No, I don’t think!” he answered angrily. “Well, try,” she suggested sweetly. “Put yourself into our place.” “It’s you putting yourselves into _our_ place that’s the trouble,” he retorted. “What will women be up to next, I wonder.”