The girl had protested at the idea of a wedding
trip. “We both like that hill farm better than anywhere else in the world,” she said. “Why should we go racing off to some place we don’t care about?”
“And defy an old custom like that?” he argued; but he knew that she knew how much he had wanted exactly that.
So they had gone to the church in the afternoon and had come back to a reception at the aunt’s afterwards—a very nice affair with the luxurious old rooms candle-lighted and hung with autumn leaves. And their best friends had come to wish them well, with all the noise and chatter common to such occasions, even among very well bred people; and as soon as they could, they kissed the aunt and slipped away, getting a last glimpse of Jean and the Agricultural Representative, apparently completely lost in some panorama unfolding itself before them in the open fire.
The car swung out of the city streets on to the smooth, winding country road, a familiar road, but somehow different. At the crest of the hill they stopped and looked back at the city glittering in a cup below them.
“Sure you’re not sorry you’re leaving it?” Billy asked.
“Quite sure. But it isn’t the city’s fault. It isn’t a natural place to live; but it has a lot to give in other ways.”
“Things we must try to keep in touch with.”
“Only there are times when neither city nor country, nor anything else, matters. It’s only people that count—”
But Billy was very appreciative and that sentence was never quite finished.