“An artist, I suppose,” Johnny thought as he drove on.
Hugh watched him down the road; he had seen Everard’s glance at him, and had summed him up. The man was just what he would have imagined, a man of his own stamp, no Adonis—just an ordinary, healthy, clean-living Englishman.
“I rather like the look of him,” thought Hugh. “He seems all right.” And then he smiled at his thoughts a trifle bitterly. “By every right on earth I ought to hate him.”
Johnny drove his small car to the doors of the Hall.
“Joan,” he said, “come out. Come out for a spin—the car’s running finely to-day. Come out, and we’ll go and have lunch at Langbourne or somewhere. What do you say?” His face was eager. “You know,” he added, “you have never been out with me in my car yet.”
“If you would like me to.”
“Go and get ready then, and I’ll tell Helen,” he said. “We shan’t be back to lunch.”
Hugh had been on his way to the village when he saw Everard in his little car. He went to the village because, if he went in the opposite direction, it would take him to the Hall gates, and he did not wish to go there. He did not wish her to see him, to form the idea that he was here loitering about for the purpose of seeing her.
Sooner or later he knew she must be made aware of his presence, then he hoped for an opportunity to explain, but he would not seek it yet. So he made his way to the village, stopped to give pennies to small white-haired children, patted the shaggy dusty heads of vagrant dogs, and finally came to anchor on the seat beside the railed-in stocks.
And there on that same seat sat a small, dark-eyed maiden, whose rusty bicycle reclined against the railings. She had been here yesterday for fifteen minutes or so. He and she had occupied the seat without the exchange of a word, according to English custom.