“Positive!” said Mary Smith in a very quiet tone.
The air was serene above them, and one lark had found his way so high that they could hardly hear him singing. The Prime Minister wished from the bottom of his heart that he could live in that field for a week. He rose to one despairing rally:
“Mary,” he said, “suppose it rains?”
“Oh Dolly, Dolly, Dolly!” she answered, stopping short and standing in front of him. “It’s for all the world as though you were just back from school for the last time, and I was a little girl who had been sent for on the grand occasion to tea.”
She put both hands on his awkward shoulders to stop him, and she kissed him anywhere upon the face.
“It won’t rain, Dolly,” she said, “I’ve seen to that.”
CHAPTER VII
CHARLES REPTON had taken no weekends. Charles Repton had sat tight in London.