The man shrugged his shoulders.
“Perhaps an appreciative Providence didn’t want you to spoil your fingers. Perhaps . . .”
“My name’s de Lisle,” said Audrey suddenly. “Audrey de Lisle.”
“I’m known as John,” said the other. “Christopher John. You know. Wot ‘went to bed with his breeches on.’ ”
“Do be careful,” bubbled Audrey. “In a minute I shall really believe that I have stumbled into fairy-land, and—and try to live up to it.”
“That should come easy to you,” said Christopher John. “I haven’t placed you yet, but you’re in The Book. And now I must go to my labour. I shall be through in ten minutes’ time. Please don’t start without me. Spanners are slippery things.”
“I’ll wait for you here,” said Audrey.
As he walked back to the waggon she took her seat on the stile. . . .
Presently a whip cracked, and amid creak of wheels and cries of men the waggon lumbered out of the meadow and swayed down the lane towards Sundial, its load paying toll as it passed, till the green walls were hung with sweet-smelling wisps and the road laid with a carpet fit for a king.
At last the rumble faded, and a tall figure came stepping along the sunflecked corridor.