Mrs. Devar dared not go farther. She relapsed into a sulky silence. She said not a word when Cynthia occupied the front seat for the climb through Chepstow’s High Street, and when the girl turned to call her attention to the view from the crest of the famous Wyndcliff she was nodding asleep!
Cynthia told Medenham, and there was a touch of regret in her voice.
“Poor dear,” she said in an undertone, “the Castle was too much for her, and the fresh air has made her drowsy.”
He glanced quickly over his shoulder, and instantly made up his mind to broach a project that he had thought out carefully since his quarrel with the Frenchman.
“You mean to stay in Hereford during the whole of to-morrow, Miss Vanrenen?” he asked.
“Yes. Somehow, I don’t see myself scampering across the map on the British Sabbath. Besides, I am all behindhand with my letters, and my father will be telegraphing something emphatic if I don’t go beyond ‘Much love’ on a picture postcard.”
“Symon’s Yat is exceptionally beautiful, and there is a capital little hotel there. The Wye runs past the front door, the boating is superb, and there will be a brilliant moon after dinner.”
“And the answer is?”
“That we could run into Hereford before breakfast, leaving you plenty of time to attend the morning service at the cathedral.”