“Family coach!” repeated Daniel, puzzled. Jinny, fumbling at the lamp with butter-fingers, was glad it had not yet illumined her blushes. For, mingled with the rapturous tumult at her heart was a shrinking sense of impending publicity, of ethereal emotions too swiftly and masterfully translated into gross commitments. How had her mere passive acquiescence in a better relationship warranted Will’s larger assumptions? “Well, that’s what it’ll be if you accept my proposition, won’t it?” she heard Will say. “Set ye down, set ye down!” said Daniel. “What’s your proposition? Jinny, why’re you lazying with that lamp?” “In a moment, Gran’fer.” She brought it in, its fat globe shedding a rosy glow over the dingy wall-paper, the squat chairs, and the china shepherdesses. But for herself she had no need of it. Everything seemed to her transfigured, steeped in a heavenly light. “Where’s that beer?” the ancient roared, its absence illumined. She was glad to escape into the kitchen with her jug. Will moved towards the front door. “You come and see the coach, Mr. Quarles,” he persisted, “before it’s too dark.” “Dang your coach!” But the imprecation was mild and the ancient shuffled to the door and surveyed the imposing equipage complete from box to boot, with its glossy sable steeds. Will, swelling with renewed pride, and mentally comparing it with the canvas-rotted, lumbering little carrier’s cart and the aged animal on its last legs, awaited with complacency the rapturous exclamations of the old connoisseur. But they did not come. “Ay, quite soizable, not such a bad coach, rayther top-heavy. Where’s the leaders?” “You don’t want more than two horses on these roads. Ain’t there plenty o’ pair-horse coaches? Besides it don’t set up for a coach exactly. I’m a carrier mainly!” The old man winced at the word. “You’ve called her the Flynt Flyer,” he said, peering at the painted legend. “And fly she does!” said Will, recovering his complacency. “There’s life and spirit for you!” he added, as the horses pawed and tossed their heads. “More like an adder biting their heels!” said Daniel balefully. “But Oi thought Oi heerd they was black!” Will was outraged. “The Devil himself couldn’t be blacker!” Daniel shook his head. “Mud-colour Oi should call the offside hoss.” “Well, there’s black mud, ain’t there?” “Nearside hoss seems wheezy,” Daniel said sympathetically, as it snorted with impatience. “Wheezy? Cherry-blossom? Why, he could run ten miles more without turning a hair.” “Why, he’s sweatin’ like one o’clock!” “So am I.” Will wiped his forehead furiously. “But that’s only the weather.” “Hosses don’t want to sweat when there’s nowt to carry.” For a moment Will was knocked breathless. Recovering, he smiled complacently. “Why, it’s all delivered. And it _was_ a deliverance. A terrible load. Phew!”