It was absurd, this anxiety that he felt—all out of proportion. And yet it was always like that when he was going to meet her—it was always like the first time. He never lost the thrill of choking gladness and surprise. Each time he discovered something new in her of sweetness, leaving him amazed at his former blindness.
Harry was speaking to the golden woman. “So they’re not coming?”
She crouched her chin against her shoulder, gazing at him innocently and wide-eyed. “Who?”
“Why, my brother and Cherry. What’s the secret? Look here, Eve, you ought to tell us. I’m certain he sent a message—some sort of an explanation.”
“Are you?” She gave him a tantalizing smile; then turned to Peter. “Peter shall know; perhaps before we reach London.”
There was a low rumble, followed by a crash. The rain came smashing against the panes. They pushed back their chairs and ran to look out. In an incredibly short time streets were flooded; gutters were turbulent with muddy rivers. Rain thudded against the pavement and sprayed up in little fountains.
“Doesn’t look to me,” said Harry, “as though we’ll ever get as far as London.”
“Got to,” said the golden woman.
The deluge commenced to slacken, but the storm still hung above the valley, moaning and grumbling. Rain swept like smoke across the house-tops.
Harry laughed. “Got to! You can’t drive a four-inhand to London through that. May as well make the best of it. We’ve to be back in Oxford before midnight, or else——. Perhaps there’s still time to do it. We’ll give it a chance.”