"Oh! Whether they'll go to Brighton or to South-end for their fortnight, I expect," returned Paul Dampier. "Everybody's thinking about holidays just now."
Later, they stood together in the hushed gloom of the big chestnut aisle beside the river that slipped softly under Kew Bridge, passing the willows and islands and the incongruously rural-looking street of Strand-on-the-Green. One of the cottage-windows there showed red blinds, lighted up and homely.
Young Dampier whispered to his girl—"Going on holidays myself, perhaps, presently, eh?"
"Oh, Paul!" she said blankly, "you aren't going away for a holiday, are you?"
"Not yet, thanks. Not without you."
"Oh!" she said. Then she sighed happily, watching the stars. "To-day's been the loveliest holiday I've ever had in my life. Hasn't it been perfect?"
"Not quite," he said, with his eyes on those red-lighted windows on the opposite bank. "Not perfect, Gwen."
"Not——?" she took up quickly, wondering if she had said something that he didn't like.
Almost roughly he broke out, "Oh, I say, darling! Don't let's go and have one of these infernally long engagements, shall we?"
She turned, surprised.