Margaret looked through the window. There were a few scattered cottages, one solitary farm, and at a little distance, half hidden amongst the trees, the old dilapidated church.
"It is quiet," she said; "but it is very pretty."
"Quiet!" and he laughed. "I'd no idea there were such spots near London. Austin must have had some trouble in finding such an out-of-the-way place."
And he spoke truly. Mr. Ambrose had taken a great deal of trouble.
The fly drove up to the church door, and Austin Ambrose got down from the box.
"You need not wait," he said to the flyman; "we are going to take a stroll through the church. It looks interesting."
The flyman pocketed his fare—the exact fare—and concluding that they were sight-seeing, drove sleepily off.
"Come along," said Austin Ambrose in a matter-of-fact fashion, and they followed him.
But the door was locked, and there was no sign of parson, or clerk, or pew-opener.
Austin Ambrose bit his lip, then laughed.