I put my films in my pocket, and we set off eagerly along the pleasant road, past a little village, past a church with a graveyard back of it and a Celtic cross high on the hillside above it, past a hotel or two, around one turn after another, with green-clad hills mounting steeply to our right and the blue lake lying low on our left. We met an occasional cyclist, or a donkey-cart being driven home from market, or a labourer trudging stolidly home from work, or two or three girls strolling along with arms interlaced, exchanging confidences. And the air was very sweet and the evening very cool and pleasant, and the sky full of glorious colour—
"We must certainly have come two miles," said Betty. "What do you suppose is the matter?"
"I don't know," I said, looking at my watch and noting that we had been half an hour on the road. "Perhaps we'll see the town around the next turn."
But we didn't. All we saw was about half a mile of empty road. We covered this and came to another turn, and there before us lay another long stretch of road. Determined not to give up, we pushed on, and came to a bridge over a rippling little stream, which we learned afterward was the Flesk, and we stopped and looked at it awhile and rested.
"We must be nearly there," I said encouragingly.
"What's bothering me," explained Betty, "isn't the distance we have to go to get there; it's the distance we have to go to get back."
There was another bend in the road just beyond the bridge, and we turned this, confident that the village would be there. But it wasn't. We saw nothing but the smooth highway, stretching away and away into the dim distance. I looked at my watch again.
"We've been walking nearly an hour," I said. "It looks as though we might miss dinner, after all."
And just then there came the trot of a horse and the jingle of harness along the road behind us, and a side-car drew up with a flourish.
"Would your honour be wantin' a car?" asked the jarvey, leaning toward us ingratiatingly.