But George was glummer than the December twilight now swiftly
closing in.
"That darned horse!" he said.
"I wouldn't bother about Pendennis, Georgie," said his uncle. "You
can send a man out for what's left of the cutter tomorrow, and
Pendennis will gallop straight home to his stable: he'll be there a
long while before we will, because all we've got to depend on to get
us home is Gene Morgan's broken-down chafing-dish yonder."
They were approaching the machine as he spoke, and his friend, again
underneath it, heard him. He emerged, smiling. "She'll go," he said.
"What!"
"All aboard!"
He offered his hand to Isabel. She was smiling but still pale, and
her eyes, in spite of the smile, kept upon George in a shocked
anxiety. Miss Fanny had already mounted to the rear seat, and George,
after helping Lucy Morgan to climb up beside his aunt, was following.
Isabel saw that his shoes were light things of patent leather, and
that snow was clinging to them. She made a little rush toward him,
and, as one of his feet rested on the iron step of the machine, in
mounting, she began to clean the snow from his shoe with her almost
aerial lace handkerchief.
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