They climbed the fence, navigated several ditches, and walked for some time in silence when his words seemed to ring with vibrations in Jenny's voice.
"You're quite right" she said. "Let's forget it! Today is— Sunday, isn't it? Let's forget it! Let's enjoy ourselves!"
"And tomorrow," said Martin, "you go to London with me. You must have some friends who aren't under the eye and grip of Grandma, and you can stay with them. We can get a special license soon, if you don't mind being married in a registry office. Will you do that?"
"Of course," Jenny said simply "Anywhere, any time. I did think it would be better to get Grandmother's approval, because she says she's beginning to like you; but—"
Martin stopped short
"Listen, Jenny angel." He touched her moist cheek, and looked down at the eager blue eyes. "It's a good thing I'm reasonably honest. Anybody you like seems able to deceive you. I can no more imagine your 'good grandmother’ giving us her approval than I can imagine her canoodling with Sir Henry Merrivale."
He felt a compression in the chest; such an immensity of tenderness that he could not have expressed it.
"It'll be all right, you know," he said. "You needn't worry. I’m not exactly broke, and… damn it, come on! We're nearly home!"
For the white, square solidness of Fleet House loomed up ahead in a mist-rift, seen partly from the north side and partly from the back. They were nearly on the edge of a flower garden, whose paths they managed with care, until they emerged across a clipped lawn at the back of the house. To Martin Drake, this morning, Fleet House had no forbidding quality at all.
"I suppose," Jenny said, in a voice which asked to have the supposition denied, "you'll want to sleep for hours and hours?"