The son of the blonde matron smiled cheerfully as the welcome light
flooded the coach.
He was a nice-looking young man, of about twenty-two, one might judge,
and he did his smiling, though in a perfectly impersonal and correct
sort of manner, at the pretty daughter of the brunette matron. The
pretty daughter also smiled, but her smile was demurely directed at
the trees outside, clad as they were in all the flaming glory of their
autumn tints, glistening with the recent rain and dripping with gems
that sparkled and flashed in the noonday sun as they fell.
It is marvelous how much one can see out of the corner of the eye,
while seeming to view mere scenery.
The driver looked down, as he drove safely off the bridge, and shook
his head at the swirl of water that rushed and eddied, dark and muddy,
close up under the rotten planking; then he cracked his whip, and the
horses sturdily attacked the little hill.
Thick, overhanging trees on either side now dimmed the light again,
and the two plump matrons once more glared past the opposite
shoulders, profoundly unaware of each other.
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