"I shall be walking home, thank you, Thomas," said Joan as she got out of the car, and the man stood waiting for orders.
He touched his cap, and they stood watching the car go down the High
Street. Then she turned to Vane.
"You'd better see about your letters," she said demurely. "And then we might go over the Castle. There is a most wonderful collection of oleographic paleographs brought over by the Americans when they discovered England. . . ."
"In one second," threatened Vane, "I shall kiss you. And I don't know that they'd understand it here. . . ."
"They'd think we were movie actors," she gurgled, falling into step beside him. "Do you know the way?"
"In the days of my unregenerate youth I went to the races here," he answered. "One passes a prison or something. Anyway, does it matter?"
She gave a sigh of utter contentment. "Nothing matters, my man—nothing at all—except that I'm with you. Only I want to get out into the open, with the fresh wind blowing on my face—and I want to sing for the joy of it. . . . Do you think if we sang up the town here they'd give me pennies?"
"More probably lock us up as undesirable vagrants," laughed Vane. "It's a county town and they're rather particular. I'm not certain that happiness isn't an offence under the Defence of the Realm Act. Incidentally, I don't think there would be many convictions these days. . . ."
She stopped for a moment and faced him. "That's not allowed, Derek; it's simply not allowed."
"Your servant craves pardon," he answered gravely, and for a while they walked on in silence.