Cynthia did not look at him or she would have seen that he was rather baronial in aspect just then. Sad to relate, they were speeding down the Wyndcliff gorge without giving it the undisturbed notice it merited.
“I have a kind of notion that Mrs. Devar wouldn’t catch on to the boating proposition,” she said thoughtfully.
“Perhaps not, but the river takes a wide bend there, and she could see us from the hotel veranda all the time.”
“Guess it can’t be fixed up, anyhow,” she sighed.
Twice had she lapsed into the idioms of her native land. What, then, was the matter with Cynthia that she had forgotten her self-imposed resolution to speak only in that purer English which is quite as highly appreciated in New York as in London?
It was Saturday afternoon, and they overtook and passed a break-load of beanfeasters going to Tintern. There is no mob so cruelly sarcastic as the British, and it may be that the revelers in the break envied the dusty chauffeur his pretty companion. At any rate, they greeted the passing of the car with jeers and cat-calls, and awoke Mrs. Devar. It is a weakness of human nature to endeavor to conceal the fact that you have been asleep when you are supposed to be awake, so she leaned forward now, and asked nonchalantly:
“Are we near Hereford?”
“No,” said Cynthia. “We have a long way to go yet.” She paused. “Are you really very tired?” she added, as an afterthought.
“Yes, dear. The air is positively overpowering.”