"But you haven't been to the abbey yet, have you?" he asked.
The boyish anxiety in his tone gave me a thrill. Something in the thought of his remembering my romantic whim touched me.
"No. I have just come from there—the lodge—but the old woman at the gates wouldn't let me in."
He looked interested.
"No? But why not?"
"The master of the house has just died," I explained. "It would be a terrible breach of etiquette to go sight-seeing over the mourning acres."
His lips closed firmly.
"Nonsense! I'll venture that's just a servant's whim." He slipped out his watch. "Shall I go over and try to beg or bribe permission for you? I'm not easily daunted by their refusals, and—I'll have a little time to spare this morning, if you'd care to put your marooned period to such a use."
"I am marooned," I told him, wondering for a moment what the Montgomerys would think of my delay, "and I should like this, of course, above anything else that England has to offer, but——"
Then, after his precipitate fashion, he waited for no more. He paused at the edge of the platform for a low-toned colloquy with Collins—I could easily distinguish now that the liveried creature was Collins—and the two disappeared down the car track. After the briefest delay he returned.