Presently Monica assented. If it were fine, she would be by the south-east entrance to Regent’s Park at two o’clock. He thanked her with words of the most submissive gratitude, and then they parted.
The day proved doubtful, but she kept her appointment. Widdowson was on the spot with horse and trap. These were not, as he presently informed Monica, his own property, but hired from a livery stable, according to his custom.
“It won’t rain,” he exclaimed, gazing at the sky. “It shan’t rain! These few hours are too precious to me.”
“It would be very awkward if it did,” Monica replied, in merry humour, as they drove along.
The sky threatened till sundown, but Widdowson was able to keep declaring that rain would not come. He took a south-westward course, crossed Waterloo Bridge, and thence by the highways made for Herne Hill. Monica observed that he made a short detour to avoid Walworth Road. She asked his reason.
“I hate the road!” Widdowson answered, with vehemence.
“You hate it?”
“Because you slaved and suffered there. If I had the power, I would destroy it—every house. Many a time,” he added, in a lower voice, “when you were lying asleep, I walked up and down there in horrible misery.”
“Just because I had to stand at a counter?”
“Not only that. It wasn’t fit for you to work in that way—but the people about you! I hated every face of man or woman that passed along the street.”