“You shall have it, not once, but always, in everything, except what concerns yourself,” he answered, kissing her cheek. “Now go and get your hat, and let us escape before Mrs. Blunden pounces upon you for a millinery consultation. I know it is pending, for I saw her pass the door ten minutes ago, with a huge packet of patterns and trimmings fresh from London.”
Only too glad to avoid one of the long inflictions with which Aunt Margaret tried her patience but too often, Florence obeyed. It was some time, however, before she could recover her usual tone, for she felt greatly disappointed at his determination with regard to Susan Denham.
He saw that she was vexed, and redoubled his usual tenderness, insensibly leading her thoughts away from the disagreeable subject. The morning, too, was a lovely one—soft and hazy with the fast-falling leaves glittering in their autumnal tints beneath a cloudless sky.
Insensibly they wandered on, leaving the seaside for the deep and intricate lanes of the inland country—sometimes talking, sometimes silent; occasionally pausing and resting on a stile or bank, but always happy, for they were together; and every glance, every murmured word, spoke the fullness of their content.
At last, with a start and a bewildered look around him, Mr. Aylwinne paused.
“I haven’t the slightest idea where we are, have you?”
Florence laughed gayly at their dilemma, for she was in equal ignorance; and not a creature was in sight, or a cottage visible where they could make inquiries.
Mr. Aylwinne pulled out his watch.
“By Jove! It is nearly three hours since we left the house! How inconsiderate I am! You must be tired to death.”
“I did not feel it till you spoke; but I will confess now, to wishing myself nearer home. We had better return as quickly as we can.”