"No hurry," he said, "no hurry—since we have met. It is a wonderful pleasure to me, Miss Basingstoke. Don't cut it short. And what have you been doing all this long time?"
"Oh, traveling about," she answered, watching the stair-foot as the rabbit from beside its burrow might watch the exit at which a terrier is posted. "Just seeing England, you know. We neglect England too much, don't you think, rushing off to the Riviera and Egypt and India and places like that when all the while there are the most beautiful things at home."
"I agree," he said, "the most beautiful things are in England," and lest his meaning should escape her, added, with a jerk of a bow, "and the most beautiful people." And still he stood there, smiling and not moving.
"Have you your car with you?" she asked, for something to say.
"No, but I'll send for it if you like. We could have some pleasant drives—Stratford, Shakespeare's birthplace—"
"We've been to Stratford," she put in, and went a step nearer to the stair-foot.
"Then anywhere you like. Shall I send for the car?"
"Mr. Basingstoke," she said, quite untruly, "doesn't care much about motoring."
"Mr.—? Oh, your brother! Well, we did very well without him before, didn't we? Do you remember what a jolly drive we had, and a jolly lunch; in point of fact, practically everything was jolly until he turned up. I wished him far enough, I can tell you, and I hope you did. Say you did."
"Of course I didn't," she had to say.