"The view, or the ballet?" said George.
"Idiot!" She turned to Anne. "Why don't you take him this afternoon?
It's his day out, and you know you can always go."
"Yes, please do," said Anthony.
He could not very well have said anything else. Besides, Anne was all right. He liked her. There was, of course, but one woman in the world. Still Anne was a good sort, and he would not have hurt her feelings for anything.
The matter was arranged then and there.
Seven hours later the two, with Patch, were tramping over a rising moor towards a dense promise of woodland which rose in a steep slope, jagged and tossing. This day the ragamuffin winds were out—a plaguy, blustering crew, driving hither and thither in a frolic that knew no law, buffeting either cheek, hustling bewildered vanes, cuffing the patient trees into a dull roar of protest that rose and fell, a sullen harmony, joyless and menacing. The skies were comfortless, and there was a sinister look about the cold grey pall that spoke of winter and the pitiless rain and the scream of the wind in tree-tops, and even remembered the existence of snow.
"I wish it was a better day," said Anne. "It's always worth seeing; but you won't see so far to-day, and there's no sun."
Anthony glanced at the sky.
"Unless," he said, "it's worth seeing when the trees are bare, it's just as well we're going there to-day. That sky means mischief. Are you sure you're warm enough?"
Anne laughed.