When the stove, red with rust, had been reinstated in the shelter of the hedge, Byron took up the limp body and began to prepare it. "That’s every bit of coal we got, till Jim bring ’ome some from Stowe," said Bennett as he poured a shovelful of round knobs, which had been salvaged from the sea, on to the furze bushes, and set them alight. "There’s plenty of wood there," grunted the other, "so we must burn that." "I should think ’twas time Jim ’ud be back." The hind was a little mournful man with a grievance. He had seen Jim drive off that morning, in his Sunday suit, with a pretty girl for company; and he had felt that he himself, older in service, should have been sent. "But these young chaps, when they go an errand, they take good care they don’t come ’ome very quick. Course," he added grudgingly, "’e can spend the day in Stowe without any trouble." "Oh, shut yer mouth," cried the other savagely. The man’s grumbling chatter had obliged him to remember that Jim Rosevear was with Gray. Till then, he had succeeded in keeping the thought of their proximity at the back of his mind. It had been difficult, but he had done it. Dick had made it no longer possible and the day in Stowe unrolled itself before his jealous eyes—the drive in, a drive of five good Cornish miles, the drive behind Lady who, though a good mare, was slow: the stall in the market where Rosevear would set up the trestles, help the girl arrange to the best advantage the eggs, the poultry, the pounds and half pounds of butter: the meeting after market on the Quay where, the wagon being loaded with coal and flour, they would leave Lady by the warehouse while they hurried from shop to shop, she buying and he carrying the parcels: finally the long drive home in the windy dusk. Leadville tortured himself with the thought of that drive, of Gray’s softness and nearness, of the little face between the fur of cap and necklet, the little smiling face....