She hoped he would question her further; but he did not.
“Good-bye, Mr Wagram,” putting forth her hand with a bright smile. “I shall return by the main road. It’s much shorter—besides, I’ve had enough adventure for one afternoon.”
“Well, if you won’t reconsider my suggestion.”
“Thanks, no; I had really better get back.”
“And,” he supplemented, “again let me remind you that the utter wreck of your bicycle is our affair. Oh, and by the way—er—in case you are put out by the want of it even for a day or two in this splendid weather, Warren, in Bassingham, keeps very good machines on hire—you understand, our affair of course. I will send him in word the first thing in the morning.”
“Now, Mr Wagram, you are really too good,” she protested with real warmth. “I don’t know whether I ought even to think of taking you at your word.”
“Ought? But of course you must. It’s a matter, as I said before, of hard, dry law, and damage. Good-bye.”
They had reached the gate by this time, and closing it behind her, Wagram raised his hat and turned back to where lay the dead gnu. Then, as the men he had sent for had arrived, and he had given directions as to the careful preserving of the head, he moved homeward.
The air seemed positively to thrill with the gush of bird-song as the last rays of dazzling gold swept over the vivid greenery, ere the final set of sun. Passing the chapel, a Gothic gem, set in an embowering of foliage, Wagram espied the family chaplain seated in front of his rose-grown cottage, reading.
“Evening, Father,” he called out.