§ 6
She found him in the garden seated in a deck-chair (adjusted to the bottom notch) reading the Observer. He wore grey flannel trousers and a sort of Donegal tweed sporting jacket. He was utterly divorced from the prevailing atmosphere of Upton Rising in that his attire betrayed no indication of the fact that it was Sunday. Catherine thought: “How delightfully Bohemian!” and (an after-thought), “He certainly hasn’t dressed up for me, anyway.”
“Hullo!” he cried, as she obtruded herself into the alcove of shrubbery which ringed him round almost completely. And he rose (a matter of obvious difficulty) and shook hands with her. He dropped the Observer on the lawn. Also he smiled at her: it was not a beautiful smile, because he could not smile beautifully, but it was a smile of welcome.
“Come along, and well find another chair,” he said. They strolled over the lawn and towards the house.
“I’m taking a day off,” he said briskly, “and I think I deserve it. The first day off I’ve had for months.”
“Except last Monday,” she put in.
“Why—what happened then?”
“You were at High Beech. I saw you.”
“Oh, Bank Holiday, you mean? Oh, that wasn’t pleasure exactly. Miss Trant and I had gone to Hertfordshire to collect some data in connection with a new book I’m on with. Coming back we thought we’d go past High Beech—that was all.”
“Another book?”