The Marchants were at the morning service, all five of them, fresh and blooming after their long walk, a bunch of English roses, redder or paler as Nature had painted each. Eve, tallest, fairest, loveliest, was conspicuous among the sisters.
“By Jove! how handsome that girl is!” whispered little Tivett, as he ducked to put away his hat.
He and Vansittart were sitting apart from the rest, the Redwold pew being full without them.
“I want to walk home with them after church,” whispered Vansittart, also intent upon the disposal of the Sunday cylinder. “Will you come too?”
“With pleasure.”
This was before the service began, before the priest and choir had come into the chancel.
The service was brief, a service of jubilant hymns and anthem and short flowery sermon, flowery as the chancel and altar, and pulpit and font, in all their glory of arums, azaleas, spireas, and lilies of the valley. The church clock was striking twelve as the major part of the congregation poured out. There was a row of carriages in the road, two of them from Redwold Towers; but Vansittart and Tivett declined the accommodation of landau or waggonette.
“We are going for a long walk,” said Mr. Tivett. “It’s such a perfect day.”
“But you will lose your lunch, if you go too far.”
“We must risk that, and make amends at afternoon-tea.”