“Take care of your stom—your health—and your complexion will take care of itself,” observed Mr. Vansittart.
“Charlie! Where; is the boy?” called Lady Merceron again.
The boy was gone. He was flying as fast as his legs would take him to the Pool. Where was that cherished interview now? He could hope only for a few wretched minutes—hardly enough to say good-by once—before he must hustle—yes, positively hustle—Agatha out of sight. He had heard that abominable Sutton remark that they might as well start directly after tea.
He was breathless when he burst through the willows. But there he came to a sudden, a dead stop, and then drew back into shelter again. There on the bank, scarcely a dozen feet from it, sat two people—a. young man with his arm round a young woman’s waist. Willie Prime and Nettie Wallace, “by all that’s damnable!” as Sir Peter says! Charlie said something quite as forcible.
He felt for his watch, but he had left it with his waistcoat on the lawn. What was the time? Was it going quickly or slowly? Could he afford to wait, or must he run round to the road and intercept Agatha? Five minutes passed in vacillation.
“I’ll go and stop her,” he said, and began a cautious retreat. As he moved he heard Willie’s voice.
“Well, my dear, let’s be off,” said Willie.
Nettie rose with a sigh of content, adjusted her hat coquettishly, and smoothed her skirts.
“I’m ready, Willie. It’s been beautiful, hasn’t it?”
They came towards Charlie. Evidently they intended to regain the road by the same path as he had chosen. Indeed, from that side of the Pool there was no choice, unless one clambered round by the muddy bank.