“Of gates, perhaps.”
“Well, now, I must be off. Good-night, and thank you so much.”
She held out her hand. He took it in both of his.
“I do hope Mr. Herbert will ask me to another picnic,” he said.
A boy on a bicycle rode past slowly. Instinctively, they shrank into the shadow of a tree.
“Wasn’t that Frank Beckett-Smythe?” whispered Elsie, forgetting to withdraw her imprisoned hand, and turning a startled face to Martin.
“Yes.”
“Where can he be going at this time?”
Martin guessed accurately, but sheer chivalry prevented him from saying more than: