“Good-by, Jeffcock!” he cried, and with a merry twinkle in his eyes. “Good-by, Mrs. Kenley-Player! Something makes me think that we shall meet again.”
Did he mean anything? Had I given myself away so completely then? Had Janet noticed, I wondered, but I dared not look at Janet, so I slipped in the clutch, and soon Dalehouse and Merchester were left behind, things of the past. The open country and the future lay ahead.
Was ever air so fresh and cool, or country scents so sweet? Was ever woman more perfect than this dear one so demure and quiet at my side? The road stretched straight and true ahead, and Janet and I were starting our journey together.
Under the tree, where I had stopped on my way into Merchester, I drew up again to take one last look at the cathedral. Like a plain white column—some gigantic Cenotaph, I thought—it stood out against the bank of gray cloud behind it.
We were kneeling on the seat looking over the back of the car, and after a time I turned to find Janet looking at me with a quiet little smile.
“A penny for your thoughts,” she said.
She looked distractingly bewitching. I had plunged when I had asked her to come to Millingham, and I made up my mind to plunge once again.
“My thoughts were with a certain unhappy general,” I prevaricated boldly, “and I was wondering whether you always treated your admirers so?”
There was a pause of a hundred years, and then, “I dare you to try,” she whispered.
From over the hedge, an old red cow, chewing her cud contentedly, gazed at us with solemn ruminative eyes. A field or two away there was a steady chop, chop, as some son of the soil chopped turnips for his sheep. Ahead of us and again behind, the road was deserted and clear.