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Updated: May 16, 2025
Beyond Pomantic, the next one or two stations took off a good many passengers, so that they had their part of the car almost to themselves. Frank Sunderline had come in and taken a place upon the other side; now he moved over into the seat behind them, accosting them pleasantly, but not interrupting the conversation which had been busily going on between them all the way.
Walking down Roulstone Street, the lowering afternoon sun full in his face across the open squares, Frank Sunderline thought how pleasant it would be to have Ray Ingraham go out to Pomantic such an afternoon as this, and see what he had done; just now, while it was still his work, warm from his hand, and before it was shut away from her and him by the Newrich carpets and curtains and china and servants going in and fastening the doors upon them.
She would get into the same carriage, and take a seat with her. She knew very well that Frank Sunderline would jump on at Pomantic, his day's work just done. If he came and spoke to Ray he should speak also to her. She did not risk trying which he would come and speak to. It should be, that joining them, and finding it pleasant, he should not quite know which, after all, had most made it so.
The story comes to a man with some such beautiful, scarce-anticipated steps of revelation as it does to a woman, when he takes his life in the true, whole, patient order, and does not go about to make some pretty sham of living before he has done any real living at all. Yes; he would ask her to ride out to Pomantic with him to-morrow; and he thought she would go.
Ray's face shone with the splendor of self-forgetting, when she said that she would "help, somewhere." What made him suddenly think of his own work? What made him say, with a flash in his eyes, "I've got a job of my own, Ray, at last. Did you know it?" "I'm very glad," said Ray, earnestly. "What is it?" "A house at Pomantic.
There was nothing for him to say. He did not think very much. He only had a passing feeling that it would be pleasant to see this grave-faced girl again, and to understand her, perhaps, a little. The great show house at Pomantic was almost finished. The architect's and builder's cares were over.
"It's pleasant out of town these fall days; and I want you to see my house before I give it over. If I come for you to-morrow, will you ride out with me to Pomantic?" Ray felt half a dozen things at that moment between his question and her reply.
"Do you really mean to say, child," she asked, turning round sharply, "that Ray don't suppose, or don't want, or don't intend ? She's a goose if she don't, then; and they're both geese; and I shouldn't have any patience with 'em! And that's my mind about it!" It is not such a very beautiful drive straight out to Pomantic over the Roxeter road. There are more attractive ones in many directions.
I don't pretend to calculate for anybody else. I know one thing, though, there is other things to be done, and it isn't sewing-machines either, if you can once get started. And when I can see my way clear, I mean to start. See if I don't!" The train stopped at the Pomantic station. The young man in the gray clothes rose up, took something from under the car-seat and went out.
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