“I’m not entirely sure,” replied Pen cautiously. “But I shouldn’t think it could be above fifteen, or, at the most twenty miles, going “cross country.”
“Are you proposing to walk twenty miles?” said Sir Richard.
“Well, I dare say it is not as much. As the crow flies, I expect it is only about ten miles off.”
“You are not a crow,” said Sir Richard dampingly. “Nor, I may add, am I. Get up from that portmanteau!”
She rose obediently. “I think I could quite well walk twenty miles. Not all at once, of course. What are we going to do?”
“We are going to retrace our steps along the road until we come to an inn,” replied Sir Richard. “As I remember, there was one, about a couple of miles back. Nothing would induce me to make one of this afflictive coach-party!”
“I must own, I am a little tired of them myself,” admitted Pen. “Only I won’t go to a posting-house!”
“Make yourself easy on that score!” said Sir Richard grimly. “No respectable posting-house would open its door to us in this guise.”
This made Pen giggle. She put forward no further opposition, but picked up the cloak-bag, and set out beside Sir Richard in the direction of Chippenham.
None of the coach-passengers noticed their departure, since all were fully occupied, either in reviling the coachman, or in planning their immediate movements. The bend in the road soon shut them off from sight of the coach, and Sir Richard then said: “And now you may give me that cloak-bag.”