If the man worked long, she found his work engaging, delighted to learn of him and study husbandry with him for husbandman. His leisure she shared naturally, as children do. He had installed her at Sundial. Besides . . .
So much for Audrey.
For the man—well, the love in his eyes had to be served.
Often enough they repaired to Domesday Mill—a place of memories. The great wheel is silent, and the house tumbling. Ivy has run riot over the gabled roof, and the proud water, once so troubled but now unearthly still, has come to mirror the passing of the glory which it begot. But chestnut and ash and lime have come to cherish Domesday, keep it against the weather, ring it against the wind. Year by year they draw closer, put out more sheltering arms. Even now the mill lies snug in its bower as a hare in her form. True offspring of Nature, Nature is taking it back. Domesday Mill will not die; it is being translated.
Audrey de Lisle was quite silly about the spot. That Christopher John had made her aware of its existence goes without saying.
Thither the two had strolled one July evening, exactly a fortnight after the car had broken down.
“And how,” said Christopher John, filling a pipe, “how do you like your kingdom?”
“I love it,” said Miss de Lisle. “Why is everyone so nice?”
“Because they love you. And they love you because you fit into their nursery rhyme.”
Audrey took off her hat and shook her head.