"Yes, Miss!"
"Phœbe, not Miss, please."
"I wasn't going to say Miss."
"What were you going to say?"
"Why, mate, yes, mate! I get into the habit of it at sea," he apologised.
"I like it. Call me mate. We are on a cruise together, now, you and I, and I trust myself entirely in your hands, captain."
"What was it you fared to ask, mate, when you called ‘George’?"
"Oh, this. The wind is cold, and I want my cloak and hood, they are down somewhere behind the seat in the cart. If I take the reins will you lean over and get them?"
"You won't upset the trap?"
"No." He brought up the cloak and adjusted it round Phœbe's shoulders, and drew the hood over her bonnet, she would have it to cover her head.
"Doesn't it make me a fright?" she asked, looking into his face.
"Nothing can do that," he answered readily.
"Well, push it back again, I feel as if it made me one, and that is as bad. There now. Thank you, mate! Take the reins again."
"Halloo! we are in the wrong road. We have turned towards the Strood."
"Dear me! so we have. That is the horse's doing. I let him go where he liked, and he went down the turn. I did not notice it. All I thought of was holding up his head lest he should stumble."
De Witt endeavoured to turn the horse.
"Oh, don't, don't attempt it!" exclaimed Phœbe. "The lane is so narrow, that we shall be upset. Better drive on, and round by the Barrow Farm, there is not half-a-mile difference."
"A good mile, mate. However, if you wish it."
"I do wish it. This is a pleasant drive, is it not, George?
"Very pleasant," he said, and to himself added, " too pleasant."
