So it happened that Lorraine motored down alone to a quaint little fishing-village on the south coast, where there was a charming, old-fashioned, creeper-decked hotel, too far from the railway for the ordinary weekend tourists, and patronised mainly by motorists in the summer.
And on Friday the motor went back to town to fetch Alymer, bringing him down about four o’clock, unaccompanied.
“So Sydney will have to be chaperone after all,” Lorraine said lightly. “Now, what should you like to do tomorrow?”
“Is there any chance of fishing?”
He asked the question with some diffidence, fearing that it might only bore her.
Lorraine clapped her hands.
“Exactly what I thought. We’re going to have the jolliest little fishing-smack imaginable for the whole day; and Sunday too, if you like; and take our lunch with us, and fish until we are tired.”
A glad light leapt to Alymer’s eyes.
“By gad! You are a trump,” he said.
In the meantime Hal waited a little feverishly for Saturday. They were to have one of their long outings. Meet at twelve, motor for two hours, lunch at two, then a walk; back to town to dine, without changing, in some grill room.