Here it was Jinny’s turn to flare up. She had never—it has been already remarked—thought of herself as up to anything, rarely even thought of herself as a woman, least of all as a representative of her sex. But challenged now to her face for the first time, she felt she must hold the pass for all womanhood. “We women will be up to whatever we please.” “Not if you want to please the men.” Jinny’s young face flashed fire and roses. “And who wants to please the men?” He laughed complacently. “I never met a woman who didn’t.” The girl’s fire died into cold contempt. “I don’t think you know much about women.” “Me? Why, I’ve knocked about since you were in pinafores—and pelisses!” “I shouldn’t be surprised, Mr. Drummer,” said Jinny with judicial frigidity, “if you knew less about women than I know about horses.” “I’ve seen half the world, I tell you.” She flicked up Methusalem. “But not the better half.” He winced again. “Fiddlesticks!” was all he could find to answer. “Drumsticks!” rejoined Jinny gaily, and with a mocking flourish of her horn, she receded afresh. Something stronger than his will now shot him forward crying: “I say, Jinny!” He meant by crying that old familiar name to disclose himself, and then to have it out with her, side by side on the driving-board. She turned her head. “_Do_ you want to jump on or don’t you?” she called. It was the last straw. Jinny—he had forgotten—-was not a name privileged for the friend of her pelisse and pinafore days: any male might use it, just as any wayside rough might abuse its owner. “I don’t,” he shouted savagely. “I’ll never patronize a woman carrier.” “_A dashing young lad from Buckingham!_” She had started singing, whether to herself or at him, he could not tell, and he strode behind the cart almost as rapidly as Methusalem before it, to find out whether she was still answering back. But apparently she had forgotten him—that was the most pungent repartee of all—and the gaiety of the chorus only added salt to the smart: “_Still he’d sing fol de rol iddle ol,_ _Still he’d sing fol de rol lay——_” The thin silver treble reminded him incongruously of her Sunday-school singing, and the revival of that long-faded picture of himself driving her home only emphasized the jarring present. He turned furiously down Plashy Walk, where the rollick of the chorus soon ceased to penetrate and the white fragrance of the wonderful hawthorn avenue made a soothing passage-way. His tongue felt acrid with anger, ale, and running, and Frog Farm, with the faces of his parents, now began to loom more emotionally before him, because of the tea as well as the tenderness awaiting him. For neither of these luxuries was likely to be absent, even if his letter—or his father—had gone astray. Let her protect herself, this minx of a carrier, Time’s odd changeling for his sober little Jinny. Serve her right if some horrid instrument of fate should take down her pride!