She considered the matter.
“Where?” she enquired.
“Cromer,” he answered promptly. “It may be rather crowded there but we shall arrive late. We can choose two or three vacant holes, have some lunch at the club house and motor home another way.”
“I should love it,” she acquiesced enthusiastically.
“I’ll go and tune up the old bus while you get ready,” he suggested.
It was a day which she never forgot; a day when all the little things went right, into which no jarring note of incident or conversation was ever introduced, when the sun shone, when everything which happened seemed to become an aid to further content. They motored lazily along the country lanes to the links, where Gregory was obliged to go and fetch the professional to see his amazing pupil. Afterwards they selected clubs, lunched, sat on the terrace for a time and motored by a devious way homewards. A mile or so from Ballaston, just inside the park, crossing which had afforded them a short cut, he stopped the car in the shadow of a great beech tree. She looked at him enquiringly.
“Puncture?”
“Sheer fatigue,” he rejoined mendaciously. “Great strain driving a car like this. Do you mind, just for a moment?”
“Why, surely not,” she answered, leaning back and taking out her cigarette case. “It’s perfectly delightful here. Won’t you smoke?”
He shook his head.