'Yes, sir, I suppose we must,' replied his hostess, half absently.
'I'll do it at once. Some more cyclists might come.'
For the rest of the day they saw very little of each other. Mr. Ruddiman rambled musing. When he came at the usual hour to supper, guests were occupying the hostess. Having eaten, he went out to smoke his pipe in the garden, and lingered there—it being a fine, warm night—till after ten o'clock. Miss Fouracres' voice aroused him from a fit of abstraction.
'I've just locked up, sir.'
'Ah! Yes. It's late.'
They stood a few paces apart. Mr. Ruddiman had one hand in his waistcoat pocket, the other behind his back; Miss Fouracres was fingering her chin.
'I've been wondering,' said the under-master in a diffident voice, 'how you'll manage all alone, Miss Fouracres.'
'Well, sir,' was the equally diffident reply, 'I've been wondering too.'
'It won't be easy to manage the Pig and Whistle all alone.'
'I'm afraid not, sir.'