Once again Mr. Priestley was charmed and relieved at the way in which his companion received his suggestions. “Oh, good!” she exclaimed. “What a brilliant idea! You mean, because we shall have to hold hands whenever any one’s looking at us?”
“That’s right,” beamed Mr. Priestley, who had meant that very thing, but had not quite liked to say so. Mr. Priestley was a man of very delicate susceptibilities.
“And look!” cried the girl, checking the car’s speed so abruptly that Mr. Priestley was all but thrown off his perch. “Look, isn’t this an inn just here? Yes, I’m sure it is. We’ll put our fortunes to the test this very moment.”
She came to a halt a few yards past the house in question, and got out of the car, Mr. Priestley following her politely in over the side and out through the door.
They approached the house and tried the front-door. It was locked. Over their heads an inn-sign creaked, but no life was visible. The windows were black masses and no sound could be heard. His heart bumping strangely, Mr. Priestley rang the bell. Nothing happened. He rang it again. Then he knocked, loudly.
A window above his head opened and a large voice asked him what he wanted.
Somewhat apologetically Mr. Priestley intimated that he would like a little nourishment.
Without any signs of apology the large voice told him very plainly that he could not have any, that couldn’t he see the place was closed, and what did he think he was doing, knocking respectable people up at that hour? Before Mr. Priestley could reply, the window was closed with a bang of finality.
“So now,” said Mr. Priestley with unabated optimism, “we’d better try somewhere else.”
They tried a little farther down the road. The village in which they had now discovered themselves to be, possessed, as do all self-respecting villages, one public-house to every three private ones. There were six houses in the village, and an inn at each end. They repeated the procedure at the second one.