"Then I will come to you and stalk you down. Look here, Audrey, don't shut yourself up here all the afternoon. You have no writing to do now. Take my advice, and go for a good long walk, and try not to think about the play, or—or anything connected with it. Keep your heart up, old girl. I am sure it is good, even if it won't be the best."
Audrey sighed heavily. She had long since given up hoping that it might be the best, or even second best, or third. To be 'Commended' was an honour she had ceased to hope for. She had written and re-written, and altered and corrected, until all the freshness and originality were gone, and the whole was becoming stiff and stilted, and she was incapable of seeing whether she was improving or spoiling it.
It was with a distinct sense of relief that she gave in to Irene's suggestion, and handed it over to her for her opinion.
And, as soon as Irene was gone, she took her second piece of advice and went out for a walk. By going quietly down the back-stairs to the back-door she escaped from the house unnoticed; then by going through the vegetable garden she got into a little lane which skirted the village, one end of it leading to the moor, the other to the high road to Abbot's Field. Her one idea was to escape meeting anyone. She felt in no mood for talk. She could not force herself to play with the children, or to chatter to the old village people, who would all be at their doors just now, anxious to see someone with whom to gossip. She meant to go up to the moor, where she could be sure of solitude. The air and the peace up there always did her good. The sight of a figure coming towards her made her turn the other way, though. She felt she could not meet anyone, and be pleasant and sociable. She was sorry, for she loved the moor better than any place. However, this other way there was the shade of the trees and the hedges, she consoled herself. And she walked on, well content through the silence and solitude of the hot summer afternoon.
Well content, at last, until suddenly she saw a well-remembered horse and rider coming along the road towards her.
Audrey was vexed. She wanted only to walk and think, and walk and think. But, though she would have found it difficult to realise, it was best for her that the break should come. She had already walked two miles, and, oblivious of everything but her thoughts, and of every thought but one— her play—was as full of nerves, and hopes and fears, as though she had stayed at home.
Mr. Vivian's sturdy common-sense was as good for her as a tonic. At sight of her he reined up Peter and dismounted. "Miss Audrey," he cried, "it is the greatest treat in the world to see you. I have scarcely seen a friend to speak to for weeks. And I was tired to death of my own company. No, I will not shake hands, and we will keep the width of Peter between us, though I am really safer than nine persons out of ten, for I have lived in such an atmosphere of disinfectants I must be saturated through and through. I honestly believe I could not catch a measle, or any other disease, if I wanted to."
"I am not afraid," said Audrey, stroking Peter's soft nose. "How are you all? Are you all out of quarantine?"
"Yes."
"Oh!" Audrey's face fell, and her tone was not one of congratulation.