It was comfortable under the trees, and Vera attempted to put off the evil moment of departure even by a few seconds.
“How many entrances has the Maze?”
“Oh, don’t know, exactly. Four or five, I think. Nothing in that. Take the first one we come to, whichever it is. Then you go to the right and I’ll go to the left, or t’other way about if you like; and the best man wins. I’ll risk a box of chocolates or a tin of cocoa on it, if you insist. Come along, don’t let’s decay here any longer; I see a bit of moss has grown on my toe since we sat down—and no wonder.”
Vera gave in and rose from her seat with feigned reluctance.
“Bit stiff in the joints with sitting so long?” Howard inquired, sympathetically. “It’ll wear off at once.”
As they sauntered across the stretches of turf which led down to the Maze, Vera was struck by the quietness of the grounds.
“Whistlefield’s a lovely place, isn’t it, Howard?”
“Top-hole,” he agreed, cordially. “First-class tennis courts; good golf-course only a quarter of an hour away; the river’s quite decent for punting; plenty of room in the house to dance, and I believe they run a pack of otter-hounds somewhere in the neighbourhood.”
“I didn’t know you were a house-agent.”
Howard saw the dig, but took no offence.