And he quite danced with impatience behind the holly bush at the respectful brevity of his master’s salute.
Then the young couple went sedately down the lane, and Sam Petch strolled back to his work, remarking scornfully, “I could do better than that when I was fifteen.”
He would have been more scornful still if he could have walked behind them, for Andy knew, and Elizabeth knew, and both knew the other knew, that this was not a chance meeting. It was, for both of them, the first definite step upon that journey which leads to the mysterious City of Wedded Love.
It lay before them, as it does before every young lover—strange, wonderful, and yet with familiar streets that we all know by name—an enchanted muddle of realism and romance.
“I think it’s going to rain,” remarked Andy, but, of course, his heart said, “How sweet you are—sweeter even than I thought!”
And Elizabeth replied—
“Yes, the glass has gone down,” but, of course, she really said, and Andy understood, “I’m glad to be here with you.”
Then for a little while they walked along saying nothing at all, because that had been so tremendous. Only Andy’s young body worshipped the exquisite harmony of his lady—cream gown, skin of that peach-like shade that has no name, golden eyes, and pure, burning sunlight in the brown of her hair.
And his soul worshipped the kindness of her voice and the clear candour of the girl’s eyes.
Oh, he was in love, body and soul, was Parson Andy.