“Oh, that’s only Adams’s rot.”
He broke off and focused his blue eyes on a group of figures coming up the field towards them.
“Lord, here’s Mother Gray and Violet coming,” he said. “I say, is my tie straight? Who’s the man with them?”
“Don’t know. Friend of theirs probably.”
“Clever fellow! Hope they’ll ask me to tea.”
David had been carrying his straw hat in his hand, but put it on, in order to have the joy of taking it off to them.
“Same man who was in chapel this morning with them,” said Bags in an undertone.
“Was he? Didn’t see him. Lord, doesn’t she look ripping?”
There is always some slight discomfort attached to a meeting which is seen, while yet a long way off, to be coming, a difficulty in knowing the right moment to cease being absorbed in the landscape or in intelligent conversation with your friend, and to become conscious of it in proper time to apply a suitable smile of recognition to the face. David, with his tingling heart, managed it with wonderful ill-success. He put on a brilliant smile long before it could be seen at all, and, feeling as if his cheeks would crack, took it completely off again. Then he tried to talk to Bags in a natural manner, and pointed to nothing at all away to the right. Then he proceeded to talk to Bags again much too long, and did not look up till the adorable one was but a couple of yards off. On came the smile of recognition again, and he took off his hat and dropped it. And, alas for the hope of being asked to tea, when he picked up his hat again, the vision had already gone by, and it was only the most instantaneous return of his smile that he reaped from all those muddled manœuvres. So on they went, Bags with face red from suppressed giggles.
“What are you laughing at, you ass?” asked David in an indignant whisper. “I don’t see anything funny.”