"I am very sorry."
Tilda's conscience smote her.
"There ain't no reason to fret about me," she said reassuringly. "But what's taken you? There's no catchin' up with the water, however fast you run."
"It leads down to the Island. It must," he announced, conning the stream.
"Think so?"
She too conned it, but could read nothing of his faith in the wimpled surface.
"Sure."
The light in his eyes impressed if it did not convince her.
"Well, maybe we'll 'ave a try to-morrow," she conceded after a while.
"But business is business. We must get back to Stratford an' consult
Sam Bossom. And then there's a letter to be written to 'Ucks.
I promised 'im, you know."
They shared their meal by the river bank; and when it was eaten, sat for a time on the scooped-out brink while Avon ran at their feet—Arthur Miles searching again in the thumbed pages of The Tempest for a hint that might perchance have escaped him; Tilda as sedulously intent on a page of a ladies' newspaper in which the bread had been wrapped.