“Of course, dear,” Grace assented.
“And our plan holds? We’ll be off to St. Margaret’s?”
“Yes, oh, yes! let’s get away from here,” said Grace, with a quick little shiver, glancing round the room, where last night they had been so happy, but that had now become distasteful to her.
“All right, sweetheart. I’ll be off to see about a car.”
His quest was speedily successful, and within an hour they were on their way in a trim little two-seater.
They were still grave and subdued when they set forth, as was inevitable, but the shadow lifted from them, and their spirits rose as they sped on their way.
It was a glorious morning, more like April than November, for the gale had blown itself out during the night: the sun shone in a cloudless sky, the blue sea was flecked with dancing white wavelets, the keen, clear air exhilarating as champagne, and overhead larks soared to sing in heavenly chorus.
“Isn’t it a dear, quaint, up-and-down little place?” said Grace, as they neared the village and slowed down. “Oh, there’s the church! It’s very, very old, and so beautiful. Roger, I’d like to go in just for a few minutes.”
“Now?” he asked, in some surprise.