The George was discovered to be an ancient half-timbered hostelry with beamed ceilings, and wainscoted parlours. It was a rambling house, with a large yard, and many chintz-hung bedrooms. There was no difficulty in procuring a private parlour, and by the time Pen had washed the dust of the roads from her face, and unpacked the cloak-bag, her spirits, which had sunk unaccountably, had begun to lift again. Dinner was served in the parlour, and neither the landlord nor his wife seemed to recognize in the golden-haired stripling the late Mr Creed’s tomboyish little girl.
“If only my aunt does not discover me before I have found Piers!” Pen said, helping herself to some more raspberries.
“We will circumvent her. But touching this question of Piers, do you—er—suppose that he will be able to extricate you from your present difficulties?”
“Well, he will have to, if I marry him, won’t he?”
“Undoubtedly. But—you must not think me an incorrigible wet blanket—it is not precisely easy to be married at a moment’s notice.”
“Isn’t it? I didn’t know,” said Pen innocently. “Oh well, I dare say we shall fly to Gretna Green then! We used to think that would be a splendid adventure.”
“Gretna Green in those clothes?” enquired Sir Richard, levelling his quizzing-glass at her.
“Well, no, I suppose not. But when Piers has explained it all to Lady Luttrell, I expect she will be able to get some proper clothes for me.”
“You do not entertain any doubts of Lady Luttrell’s—er—receiving you as her prospective daughter-in-law?”
“Oh no! She was always most kind to me! Only I did think that perhaps it would be better if I saw Piers first.”