All of them had risen early and had been ready for the start since nine. It was nearly eleven. If the Faun Man didn’t turn up shortly they wouldn’t have time to cover the sixty odd miles to London and to catch the last train back. That last train back was very necessary. If they weren’t in college or their lodgings by midnight when doors were locked, there was no telling what would happen. Probably they’d get sent down, which would mean that they’d miss their Finals, and would either lose their degrees or have to wait a year before they were examined.
They were getting fidgety, pulling out and consulting their watches. Some of them were already saying that it was too late to risk it. A horn sounded. Peter glanced back from the road into the lodge and shouted, “Hi, you fellows! Here he comes.”
Round the corner swung the chestnut leaders, tossing their heads and jingling their bridles. As the wheelers followed and the coach drew into sight, an exclamation went up, “Why, he isn’t——”
They looked again to make certain. No, he wasn’t. Instead, a woman sat on the box, erect and lonely, perched high up, governing the reins with her small, thin hands. Her trim figure was clad in a dark blue suit, close-fitting as a riding-habit, with pale blue facings. Her hair was caught back into a loose knot against her neck and dressed so smoothly that it shone like metal. The effort of controlling the horses had brought a flush to her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled with mischief at the sensation she was creating. She reined in against the pavement, glancing down provocatively at the group of young men. She looked a goddess, and had the sense to know it. “Given up hoping for me,” she cried cheerfully; “is that it?”
Peter nodded. “Pretty nearly. But where’s the Faun Man and Cherry? Why are you driving?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “I’ll tell you later. Scramble up.”
They scrambled up, filling the roof and joking, all their high spirits and anticipation recovered.
“Ready.”
The guard sprang away from the leaders’ heads and clambered up behind as the coach started forward.
It was a gray day, with patches of blue gleaming through it, like light through holes in the roof of a tent. As they passed over Magdalen Bridge the willows shuddered and stooped above the water, prophesying that rain was coming. The moisture in the air made colors stand out sudden and separate. Even sounds seemed accentuated. From farmlands, near and far, live things called plaintively. Cocks bugled shrill alarms. Cattle waded restlessly knee-deep in summer meadows. Birds fluttered out of hedges, as if setting out on journeys; then thought better of it and hastily returned. Fields lay hushed. In contrast, the sky was torn and rutted. Clouds lurched forward, black and sullen, like artillery taking up positions. Detached wisps of mist hurried hither and thither, like isolated bands of cavalry. Through the brooding stillness the coach swayed onward. The horses’ hoofs rattled as castanet accompaniment to the laughter of conversation.