“I wish the day hadn’t begun like this,” she said in a low voice.
“It shall come in like the lion of March, Dolly, and go out like a lamb—at least, I hope so.”
“So do I,” she whispered, but with the fright still in her eyes.
“Why, Dolly,” I said, “I could almost think you superstitious—and you a Ripley hand!”
She laughed faintly.
“I never knew I was, Renny. But everything seemed bright and peaceful till her horrible voice ground it with dust. I wonder why she said that?”
“Said what, Dolly?”
“That about being thrown over.”
“Now, Doll, I’ll have no more of it. Leave her to her gin palace and set your pretty face to the forest. One, two, three and off we go.”
We caught our train by the tail, as one may say, and took our seats out of breath and merry. The run had brought the bloom to my companion’s face once more and the breeze had ruffled and swept her shining hair rebellious. She seemed a very sweet little possession for a dusty Londoner to enjoy—a charming garden of blossom for the fancies to rove over.