Roland walked back to his study in a mood of deep self-satisfaction. He was carrying an extremely difficult job to a triumphant close. It did not occur to him that the role he filled was not a particularly noble one and that an unpleasantly worded label could be discovered for it. He was living in the days of unreflecting action. He did, or refrained from doing, the things he wanted to do, without a minute analysis of motive, but in accordance with a definite code of rules. He lived his life as he played cricket. There were rewards and there were penalties. If you hit across a straight long hop you ran a chance of being leg before, and if the ball hit your pad you went straight back to the pavilion. You played to win, but you played the game, provided that you played it according to the rules. It did not matter to Roland what the game was. And the affair of Betty and Brewster was a game that he was winning fairly and squarely.
Next morning he achieved victory. He met Brewster during break and presented his ultimatum.
“I won’t tell you her name,” he said. “I promised not to. It wouldn’t be the game. But I tell you what I will do, though. If you’ll promise to come out for a walk with me on Sunday I’ll arrange for her to meet us somewhere, and then you can see what you think of each other. Now, what do you say to that?”
Brewster’s curiosity was so roused that he accepted eagerly, and next Sunday they set out together towards Cold Harbour.
About a mile and a half from the school a sunken lane ran down the side of a steep hill towards the railway. The lane could be approached from two sides, and from the shelter of a thick hedge it was possible to observe the whole country-side without being seen. It was here that they had arranged their meeting.
They found the two girls waiting when they arrived. Betty looked very smart in a dark blue coat and skirt and a small hat that fitted tightly over her head. She smiled at Roland, and the sight, after months, of her fresh-colored face, with its bright eyes and wide, moist mouth, sent a sudden thrill through him—half fear, half excitement.
“So you’ve managed to arrange it,” said Dolly. “How clever of you.”
“Very nice of him to come,” said Betty, her eyes fixed on Brewster, who stood awkwardly, his hands in his pockets, kicking one heel against the other.
For a few minutes they talked together, stupid, inconsequent badinage, punctuated by giggles, till Betty, as usual, reminded them that they would only have an hour together.
“About time we paired off, isn’t it?”