"You know her well to speak of her by her Christian name," said Stapledon slowly.
Christopher was but two years younger than his companion, but one had guessed that a decade separated them.
"Know her! Know Honor! I should rather think I did know her. She's my sun and moon and stars. I suppose she hoped to tell you the great news herself, and now I've babbled it. Engaged—she and I—and I'm the happiest man in all the South of England."
"I congratulate you. My cousin promised to be a pretty woman—just a dinky maid in short frocks when last I saw her. And your name——?"
"My name is Yeoland."
"The Squire of Godleigh, of course?"
"That proud personage; and there lies Endicott's—under the wind-blown sycamores where the whitewash peeps out. Your luggage is there before you, no doubt. This is my way: to the left. You go to the right, pass that farm there on your left, follow the road and so, after about five minutes, find yourself in the presence of the Queen of the Moor. Good-bye. We shall meet again."
"Good-bye, and thank you."
Stapledon moved onwards; then he heard a man running and Christopher overtook him.
"One moment. I thought I'd ask you not to mention that scrimmage on the hillside. Honor would quite understand my performance, but she'd be pained to think I had struck or been struck by that lout, and perhaps—-well. She'll hear of it, for Cramphorn and his daughter are Bear Down people, but——"