That it took him seven miles to work out this simple problem may seem ridiculous. Possibly it is. In any case it is highly illuminating, for it shows that the love which he bore Miss Valerie French was worth having.
When he posted his letter at a quarter to eight, the cock-robin, who had been brooding over his late transilience, was greatly relieved.
* * * * *
Upon the second day of August the one-fifteen from Waterloo, or what was left of it, rumbled in the wake of three other coaches—country cousins, these, that had never seen London—up the long blue-brown valley at the end of which lay the station of Mockery Dale. It was tremendously hot, for the afternoon sun was raking the valley from stem to stern, and since what little breeze there was blew from the south-east, the fitful puffs passed over the dip in the moorland and left it windless. This suited the butterflies admirably. Indeed, from all the insects an unmistakable hum of approval of the atmosphere rose steadily. Anthony could not hear it, any more than he could hear the lark which was singing merrily at a vast height above the shining rails, for the rumble of the composite train, but he saw and marked the sleepy smile of the valley, noted with satisfaction its comfortable air of contentment to be no part or parcel of a frantic world, and held his terrier Patch to the dusty window, that he might witness the antics of a couple of forest ponies, which were galloping away from the train and kicking up contemptuous heels at the interloper in an ecstasy of idle menaces, clown-like in their absurdity.
Patch saw the impudent frolic and, panting with excitement, evinced an immediate desire to leave the carriage and deal summarily with the irreverence, but a second later the sudden demands of a French bull-dog, sitting pert in a dog-cart which at a level-crossing was awaiting the passage of the train, superseded the ponies' claim upon his displeasure. The alien was scolded explosively.
A moment later the train had pulled into the station, and Lyveden and
Patch got out. They were, it appeared, the only passengers to descend.
The only vehicle outside the station was a Ford car, rather the worse for wear. Sitting as drowsily at the wheel as the exigencies of the driver's seat would permit was a man of some thirty summers. From his appearance he might have been a member of the club to which, till recently, Anthony had belonged. His soft felt hat was cocked extravagantly over one eye to keep the sun at bay, and his country suit was, fortunately, of a cloth which age cannot wither nor custom stale, but whose like has not been woven since the ill-favoured and lean-fleshed kine came up out of the river of War.
As Lyveden appeared, carrying his luggage and preceded by Patch—
"No need to ask if you're for The Shrubbery," said the driver of the
Ford lazily. "Shove your things in the back, will you?"
Anthony set down his suit-case and touched his hat. "Very good, sir," he said.