“Right. I’ll tell them to get my tyres pumped up, and we can bike down there.”
Their way took them over the very road where the adventure had befallen, then a turn to the left, where the riding was rough. Here, under the trees, a shed of tarred planks came into view.
“We’ll leave our machines here,” said Wagram, dismounting. “They’ll be quite safe; still, I’ll chain them together, as a matter of precaution.”
“What a perfectly lovely place this is,” said the girl as they walked on beneath great over-arching oaks, which let in the sunlight in a network on the cool sward. “Tell me, Mr Wagram, don’t you sometimes find life too good to be real?”
He looked at her a trifle gravely. There was something very taking in her genuineness and spontaneity. In the present instance she had voiced what was often in his mind.
“Yes, indeed I do,” he said; “so much so that at times it is almost startling.”
It did not occur to him how he was giving vent to some of the most solemn side of his meditations for the benefit of this girl—this daughter of the drunken, disreputable, old ex-army vet, any other member of whose family he would not willingly have had there at all. But had he known her better—that is, had he known her before that eventful day—he would have reason to marvel at the great and wondrous change that had come over her within that short space of time. Her former slanginess, and other amenities and ideas begotten of Siege House, were to her now quite of the past, so effective had been recent influences to refine and soften her.
“Look there, we are in luck’s way so far,” he said. “Have you got an exposure ready?”
They had reached a high paling with the upper part bent over inward. In front was a step-ladder giving access to a small wooden platform at the top of this.
“Don’t show too suddenly,” he whispered as he helped her up this; “you’ve a fine chance.”