We entered Woadley and passed the tall gates of the Park. I had a glimpse of the Hall through the trees, and the peacocks strutting where the gardens began and the meadowland left off. I smiled to myself as I wondered what would happen if Sir Charles should meet Halloway and myself together. Two miles out of Woadley Ruthita and my cousin were still industriously chatting. I had my suspicions as to the urgency of his errand. Then the arm slid an inch further along the back-rail of the seat. That inch made his attitude barely pardonable. I reined in.
“Didn’t you say you were going to Woadley?”
“Why, yes,” he laughed. “I have to get out at the next cross-road and walk. The farms are over in that direction.”
He swept a belt of woodland vaguely. He lied consummately. His face told me nothing.
“Well, here’s the next cross-road.”
My manner was churlish. He refused to acknowledge anything hostile in my tones.
“I’m awfully grateful to you,” he said; “you’ve saved me a long walk and I’ve enjoyed your company immensely.” As he spoke the last words he smiled directly into the eyes of Ruthita. “I shall hope to meet Miss Cardover again—perhaps at Oxford.”
I did not think it necessary to tell him that Ruthita’s surname was not Cardover but Favart. We watched him stride away, clean-limbed and splendid—a man who had sinned discreetly and bore no physical marks of his shortcomings.
At last Ruthita spoke. “I don’t think I like him.”
“You didn’t let him know it.”