“I am extremely tired,” said Henry, in injured tones. “I have been walking about all the morning, and wish to sit down.”
“Certainly, if you will consent to sit on the grass.”
The Great North Road should have been bordered all its length with glebe. Henry’s kind had filched most of it. She moved to the scrap opposite, wherein were the Six Hills. They sat down on the farther side, so that they could not be seen by Charles or Dolly.
“Here are your keys,” said Margaret. She tossed them towards him. They fell on the sunlit slope of grass, and he did not pick them up.
“I have something to tell you,” he said gently.
She knew this superficial gentleness, this confession of hastiness, that was only intended to enhance her admiration of the male.
“I don’t want to hear it,” she replied. “My sister is going to be ill. My life is going to be with her now. We must manage to build up something, she and I and her child.”
“Where are you going?”
“Munich. We start after the inquest, if she is not too ill.”
“After the inquest?”