“Use that special licence of yours, Mr. Priestley!” she whispered, holding that astonished gentleman by the sleeve. “Don’t enlighten Laura at all—marry her instead! That’s my advice.”
Cynthia then darted back again, sailing over her shoulder.
“Come round to the garage,” Dora said to her, “and I’ll run us up in George’s car.”
Dora was a poor prophet. As they came in sight of the garage it was just possible to see George’s car disappearing neatly through the gateway into the road. At the wheel was Monica. For a pupil who, according to the frequently expressed opinions of both herself and her teacher, required very many more lessons before she could be trusted to take the car out alone, she seemed to be managing the rather difficult exit very capably.
“Monica!” called Cynthia.
“Monica!” shrieked Dora.
Monica did not reply, but the car accelerated with a bound which almost lifted it off the ground.
The two looked at each other. “Apparently we have to walk after all,” said Cynthia.
“Harpenfield Woods, I suppose,” said Dora sadly.
“It’s funny how being in love seems to warp a female’s sense of humour,” Cynthia mused. “I don’t think it does men’s.”