“The Broads?” tried Monty again, doubling.
“The Downs?”
“The Lake of Lucerne?”
Hard upon each other came the enterprising suggestions, but for each of them Gaveston had an objection as conclusive as it was witty.[18]
[18] Unhappily these have not been recorded in extenso by Mr. Budd. (Lit. Exec.)
“But you’re all so hackneyed,” he cried with peals of good-humoured laughter. “These have all been done before, every one of them!”
“Well, tell us your idea, Gav,” smiled Monty, with a touch of defiance.
“I propose Brittany,” he answered quite simply.
There was a ripple of admiring approbation. Brittany was decided on.
Well had the choice been justified. Long had been the bicycle expeditions through that unexplored fringe of glamorous old Celtic seaboard; to St. Malo and Cancale, Rennes and Brest, and many another half-forgotten shrine of old romance had they sped. And healthy had been the life: reading from dawn till breakfast, bathing and romping before luncheon, exploring caves before tea, collecting shells till supper, and taking moonlit or starlit tramps over the neighbouring menhirs and dolmens before going merrily to bed.