“I’d like to,” said Killigrew briskly; “I’ve been abominably lazy till to-day, and that means I shall get fat.  And when a person with light eyelashes and sandy whiskers gets fat all is over.  I should have to go into my Guv’nor’s business and become an alderman.”

He reared his singularly graceful self up from the grass as he spoke and helped Vassie to her feet.

“Good-bye, both of you, then,” said Vassie, withdrawing her hand when she was on her feet.  “If you’re going to the mill, I’ll expect you when I see you.”

This would have been arch had Vassie been a little less clever; as it was it sounded so natural that even that man-of-the-world, Killigrew, was taken in.  As he set off with Ishmael he felt a moment’s regret that he had not stayed with Vassie—­a moment inspired by her lack of pique at his not having stayed.

The sun that had gilded Vassie’s head had sunk swiftly by the time they reached the mill; and when the miller opened to their knock a flood of lamplight came out to mingle with the soft dusk.  Phoebe’s mother had died some two or three years earlier, and since then the miller had lived with only an old aunt of his own to help him look after his daughter.  He peered out at them almost anxiously, Ishmael thought, and seemed rather upset at sight of him.

“Who’s that there?” he asked sharply; then, as Killigrew stepped forward round the porch:  “I thought maybe Phoebe was weth ’ee.”

“Phoebe?  Oh, no!” said Ishmael; “why, is she out?”

“’Tes of no account,” replied the miller.  “I reckon she’m just gone down-along to see to the fowls or semthen.  Will ’ee come in, you and your Lunnon friend?”

Ishmael hesitated, then, remembering on what errand he had come, he stepped in, and, despite Killigrew’s obvious unwillingness, they found themselves pledged to stay to supper.

“We really only just came to bring Phoebe this puppy my sister promised her,” Ishmael explained.  “It’s the pick of our Wanda’s litter and Phoebe had set her heart on it.”  Ishmael held up the squirming little thing as he spoke, and it licked its black nose nervously with a pink tongue that came out curled up like a leaf.

“Ah! she’m rare and fond o’ dumb animals, is our Phoebe,” said the miller, who seemed gratified at this mark of attention.  “So long as she can have some lil’ weak thing to make a fool on she’m happy, I b’lieve.  ’Tes a woman’s way.”

“It’s a very nice way for us poor devils of men,” said Killigrew, laughing.

Supper was a short and oddly nervous meal, and still Phoebe did not come in.  Ishmael at last felt there was no use staying longer and rose.

“Good-night to you, Mr. Lenine,” he said.  “I expect I’ll find Phoebe over at Cloom.  If I do, I’ll see her home.”

“Good-night to you both,” said the miller cordially enough; but when they turned the corner by the wheel he was still peering after them as though beset by some uneasiness.