And now Mary had received it at last. The poem recalled a bygone ecstasy that could never, never return, and in a passion of despair, anguish, and rebellion she cast herself face downwards in the soft June grass. She might have been lifeless, she remained there so long, and lay so still; but the birds in the thorn hedge and the bees among the clover knew better. They heard her low, stifled sobs. It was only a girl who had lost something—or who had been robbed of her all. Well, they had known the experience themselves!
The June evening was five years ago, and Mary, like the birds, had outgrown her heartbreak.
As she stood leaning on the gate for the last time, dreamily reviewing the past years, there was a loud rumbling, whizzing sound, and a red motor shot by, leaving a cloud of dust and a hideous smell of petroleum. This same motor had not travelled half a mile before it broke down. The by-road was covered with sharp, loose stones, and a tyre was punctured.
“It will be nothing much,” announced the chauffeur, “but it will take time.”
“What do you call time?” inquired Sir Harry Coxford.
“About an hour, sir.”
“An hour! How is that hour to be killed?” drawled his companion and host.
“I know”—slapping his leg. “I noticed a pretty girl at a gate about a quarter of a mile back—just below a cottage. Let us go and have a look at her, and a talk.”
“Let us go anywhere and stretch our legs, as long as it is not far.”
“You lazy beggar! I never met your match. You wouldn’t walk half a mile to look at a pretty face, eh?”