Jon saw a gable, a chimney or two, a patch of wall through the trees—and felt his heart sink.
“I mustn't dawdle any more. It's no good going beyond the next hedge, it gets all open. Let's get on to it and say good-bye.”
They went side by side, hand in hand, silently toward the hedge, where the may-flower, both pink and white, was in full bloom.
“My Club's the 'Talisman,' Stratton Street, Piccadilly. Letters there will be quite safe, and I'm almost always up once a week.”
Jon nodded. His face had become extremely set, his eyes stared straight before him.
“To-day's the twenty-third of May,” said Fleur; “on the ninth of July I shall be in front of the 'Bacchus and Ariadne' at three o'clock; will you?”
“I will.”
“If you feel as bad as I it's all right. Let those people pass!”
A man and woman airing their children went by strung out in Sunday fashion.
The last of them passed the wicket gate.