“If you do I shall tell him to do nothing of the kind. Miss Morley, I don't mean to be ungenerous or unreasonable, but—”
“Stop! Stop! Oh!” with a sobbing breath, “how I hate you!”
“I'm sorry. When I explain, as I mean to, you will understand, I think. If you will go back to the rectory with me now—”
“I shall not go back with you. I shall never speak to you again.”
“Miss Morley, be reasonable. You must go back with me. There is no other way.”
“I will not.”
Here was more cheer in an already cheerful situation. She could not get to Mayberry that night unless she rode with me. She had no money to take her there or anywhere else. I could hardly carry her to the trap by main strength. And the curiosity of the passers-by was more marked than ever; two or three of them had stopped to watch us.
I don't know how it might have ended, but the end came in an unexpected manner.
“Why, Miss Morley,” cried a voice from the street behind me. “Oh, I say, it IS you, isn't it. How do you do?”
I turned. A trim little motor car was standing there and Herbert Bayliss was at the wheel.