"You slow, Mr. Harry! You're Meriton's ideal of reckless dash!"
"Meriton's?"
"That's the name of the town, isn't it? Or did you think I said London's?"
Harry laughed, but he was stung; she put him on his mettle. "Oh no, I understood your emphasis."
"You needn't keep her waiting any longer—while you talk about nothing to me. You'll find her in the west wood—if you want to. She left you that message."
Harry had no doubt of what she meant, yet she had not spoken a word of it. The saying goes that words are given us to conceal our thoughts; has anybody ever ventured to say that lips and eyes are? Her meaning carried without speech; understanding it, Harry took fire.
"I won't be late again, Miss Vintry," he said. "It would be a pity to disappoint Meriton in its ideal!"
He would have liked to speak to her for a moment sincerely, to ask her if she really thought—But no, it could not be risked. She would make him feel and look ridiculous. Asking her opinion about the right moment to—to—to come up to the scratch (he could find no more dignified phrase)! Her eyes would never let him hear the end of that.
"Still lingering?" she said, stifling a yawn. "While poor Vivien waits!"
There are unregenerate atavistic impulses; Harry would dearly have liked to box her ears. "Meriton's ideal" rankled horribly. What business was it of hers? It could not concern her in the least—a conclusion which made matters worse, since disinterested criticism is much the more formidable.