The motorist re-entered his Rolls and, when this had purred into the distance, Willoughby returned to the arbour with his eyes upon the ground.
The look upon his face told Spring two things.
The first was that Bagot knew what was taking her compatriot to Holy Brush. The second, that he found the knowledge acutely distasteful.
“I must go,” she said abruptly, getting upon her feet. “What are you thinking about?”
“I was wishing,” said Bagot slowly, “that I was back at Chancery.” He looked up suddenly. “And you?”
Spring looked away over the exquisite landscape.
“I was thinking that it’s very refreshing to discover another fool.”
For the next four days, when Willoughby returned to his lodge, Spring was seated upon the turf, hatless and at her ease, awaiting his coming. The man always assumed that she had just arrived. The assumption was wrong. On the last three days my lady had been there two hours before he came, ironing his washing and delicately mending his clothes. The care of linen was not old William’s strong point. She also instructed the groom how to wash up and, shocked by his replies to an examination upon elementary cooking, gave him a written statement of the procedure for roasting meat. Moreover, she taught him to deceive so cunningly, that, when later, he volunteered that he had bought an old iron for sixpence and had been trying his hand, his master wholly believed him and praised his discretion. William’s ears burned.
On the fifth day, Spring did not come.