“Not if I called you Kathleen,” Michael suggested, and felt inclined to shake his own hand in congratulation of his own magnificent daring.
“Well, I must say one thing. You don’t waste much time. I think you’re a bit of a flirt, you know,” said Kathleen.
“A flirt,” Michael echoed. “Oh, I say, do you really think so?”
“I’m afraid I do,” murmured Kathleen. “Shall we go on again?”
They rode along in renewed silence for several miles, and then they suddenly came upon Poole Harbour lying below them, washed in the tremulous golden airs of the afternoon.
“I say, how ripping!” cried Michael, leaping from his machine and flinging it away from him against a bank of vivid grass. “We must sit down here for a bit.”
“It is pretty,” said Kathleen. “It’s almost like a picture.”
“I’m glad you’re fond of beautiful things,” said Michael earnestly.
“Well, one can’t help it, can one?” sighed Kathleen.
“Some people can,” said Michael darkly. “There’s rather a good place to sit over there,” he added, pointing to a broken gate that marked the entrance to an oak wood, and he faintly touched the sleeve of Kathleen’s blouse to guide her towards the chosen spot.