The varnished woodwork of the buggy in which he sat showed him how far from best his best clothes looked. Not that he was worried by it. Mr Courtney seemed far more worried. Though they had announced in the beginning: ‘We shall send for the little boy on Friday,’ Mr Courtney himself had come, and alone. He was wearing a tweed cap, and a suit which looked new but probably wasn’t. As they drove away, down the rutted street, against the glare, Mr Courtney asked: ‘Would you like to take the reins, old man?’ Remembering another occasion when he had refused, Hurtle said he wouldn’t. His last sight of the faces at the gate had been so painful he decided to shut it out of his mind, to keep his own misery at the greatest possible distance. It was easier in the glittering present. The wheels of the varnished buggy were thrashing into the light, the horse’s tail swished with light, while Mr Courtney’s frizzy beard smelled as good as it shone. They went a while in silence through the Surry Hills.
