“Oh, never mind! It’s such a jolly place. You can get a capital glass of beer there, and it’s only fifty yards further on. Jump in, Freddie.”
“But, Arthur, are you quite sure it’s proper?” said Mysie.
“Proper? oh, dear, yes! No one there on a week-day.”
“Now, if you will humbly confess that you and Mysie forgot all about the provisions, and that you never thought of ‘The Pot of Lilies’ till this moment, we’ll come,” said Flossy.
“Flossy! I’ll confess I never heard of ‘The Pot of Lilies’ till Mysie mentioned that you and she rowed up here now and then of an evening! Come along. I’ll take care of you, and neither Hugh nor Miss Venning will come and proctorise us.”
“The Pot of Lilies” was a tiny public-house, so called from the lilies of the valley which were supposed to grow wild in Fordham Woods. It stood close by the water’s edge, with a little landing-place of its own, and a quaint, small-paned bow-window hanging over the river. Bright flowers grew on every window-sill and the Lily sign-board swung overhead. On one side was a garden, where arches and arbours, twined with creepers, shaded one or two little tables; for here, on fine Sunday evenings, Oxley and Redhurst sometimes came to tea.
Arthur sprang out of the boat and went in alone; but, soon reappearing, said:
“Come along; it’s all right,” and a very smiling hostess escorted the girls into the bow-windowed sitting-room while Arthur went to make his further arrangements.
There were china shepherds and great shells on the mantelpiece, queer coloured prints of the Queen and the Duke of Wellington on the wails, which were broken up by endless beams and cupboards.
“What a dear little room!” said Mysie; and, though the floor was sanded and there was a faint odour suggestive of beer and pipes, perhaps this only gave a slight flavour of novelty to the situation.