"Your affectionate Betty."
Betty was installed in The Whim for her wedding; and the Randolphs and Harry Kirtling—not to mention other relations—were keeping her company. Since her engagement had been announced, Jim had scarcely seen her. He had taken the news hard. His clerks, and the jobbers with whom he dealt found him difficult to please, argumentative, contemptuous, and a glutton for work throughout that Lenten season.
As Jim approached The Whim, Betty joined him on the drive. He saw that she was very pale.
"How good of you to come," she exclaimed.
"Good!" growled Jim. "As if I wouldn't cross the Atlantic or the Styx to walk with you. Where shall we go?"
Betty took a path which led to the lane running at right angles to the Westchester road. High hedges bordered this lane, with ancient yew trees at uncertain intervals. To the right lay the best arable land in King's Charteris, rich alluvial soil, now green with spring wheat; to the left, the ground ascended in undulating slopes of pasture till it melted in the downs beyond.
"Sun is going to shine on you," said Jim.
The sun was blazing in a sky limpid after a week's heavy rain. Beneath its warm beams the soaked landscape seemed to be smiling with satisfaction. A peculiar odour of fertility, pungent and potent, assailed the nostrils, the odour of spring, the odour of earth renascent, rejuvenated, once more a bride.
"I wish it were June instead of May, Jim."
"That's the most absurd superstition."