Peter returned to Pelham Ford and put his little fabric of lies upon Oswald without much difficulty. Then at the week-end came Joan, rejoicing. She came into the house tumultuously; she had caught a train earlier than the one they had expected her to come by. “I’ve got all next week. Seven days, Petah! Never mind how, but I’ve got it. I’ve got it!”
There was a suggestion as of some desperate battle away there in London from which Joan had snatched these fruits of victory. She was so radiantly glad to have them that Peter recoiled from an immediate reply.
“I didn’t seem to see you in London somehow,” said Joan. “I don’t think you were really there. Let’s have a look at you, old Petah. Tenshun!... Lift the arm.... Rotate the arm.... It isn’t so bad, Petah, after all. Is tennis possible?”
“I’d like to try.”
“Boats certainly. No reason why we shouldn’t have two or three long walks. A week’s a long time nowadays.”
“But I have to go back on Monday,” said Peter.
Joan stood stock still.
“Pity, isn’t it?” said Peter weakly.
“But why?” she asked at last in a little flat voice.
“I have to go back.”