Guy looked doubtful. It was seeming a pity to waste this afternoon without unpacking a single case. "The trap...." he began. But the porter interrupted him firmly; he did not think Mr. Godbold would relish the notion of one of these packing-cases in his new trap. "I could give you a hand...." Guy began again. The porter stiffened himself against the slight upon his strength. "It's not the heffort," he asserted. "Heffort is what I must look for every day of my life. It's Mr. Godbold's trap." The discussion was given another turn by the entrance of Mr. Godbold himself. He was not at all concerned for his trap, and indeed by an asseverated indifference to its welfare he conveyed the impression that, new though it were, it was so much firewood, if the gentleman wanted firewood. No, the trap did not matter, but what about Mr. Hazlewood's knees? "Ah, there you are," said the porter, and he and Mr. Godbold both stood dumb in the presence of the finally insuperable. "I suppose it must be the 'bus," said Guy. On such a sleepy afternoon he could argue no longer. The books must be unpacked to-morrow; and the word lulled like an opiate the faint irritation of his disappointment. The porter's reiterated altruism was rewarded with a fee so absurdly in excess of anything he had done, that he began to speak of a possibility if, after all, the smallest case might not be squeezed ... but Mr. Godbold flicked the pony, and the trap rattled up the station road at a pace quite out of accord with the warmth of the afternoon. Presently he turned to his fare: "Mrs. Godbold said to me only this morning, she said, 'You ought to have had a luggage-flap behind and that I shall always say,' And she was right. Women is often right, what's more," the husband postulated. Guy nodded absently; he was thinking about the books. "Very often right," Mr. Godbold murmured. Still Guy paid no attention.