“And a dozen journalists with snap-shot cameras, and biograph apparatus, to link us in notorious publicity to all eternity.”
“No; I couldn’t stand that. What is your alternative?”
“A long, perfect day in this heavenly sunshine, pretending anything in the world you like that will make us forget the stale, boresome, old week-day world. Then, at the end of it, the unfolding of a glorious plan that is an explanation in itself.”
Hal looked doubtful, and seemed to cogitate. He waited in an anxiety he could scarce conceal, watching her mobile, sensitive face. Finally the sunshine and the light-hearted carelessness made the strongest appeal, and she gave in.
“Very well. If it had been dull and cloudy I would not have agreed. But one daren’t trifle with sunshine. We’ll take our fill of it while it lasts.”
So it happened that their last long day was one of the best they had known—each being clever enough to carry out the suggested programme and banish the following cloud for the time.
Hal was a little feverish—a little gayer than usual, with some hidden strain; a little pathetically anxious to act an indifference she could not possibly feel, concerning that rumour, and throw herself heart and soul into their compact of forgetting everything for a little while except the sunshine and the exhilarating dash through a spring-decked England.
In some places the hedges were white with hawthorn; and in sheltered nooks they sped past primroses, like pale stars in the grass. There were plantations of feathery, exquisite larch trees, their lovely green enhanced by tall dark pines, standing among them like sentinels. In gay gardens joyous daffodils nodded and laughed to them as they whirled past. Sir Edwin ventured an appreciative remark.
“Don’t talk,” Hal said. “Pretend you are in a worldwide cathedral, and it is the great annual festival of spring.”
“May I sing?” he asked humorously.