It was at Matthew’s suggestion that they went to Allenby. Allenby, as well as being Matthew’s surname, was the name given in his honor to a little village at the mouth of one of the mines in which Matthew had large interests. Dick had been offered the stock which one of the directors was relinquishing and expressed a curiosity to see the place. Matthew said he would drive him down if he would take a day off.
“I can’t leave Cecily very well,” said Dick.
“Bring Cecily.”
“Now?”
“It won’t hurt her. The roads are fine; state roads—no frost holes. We can get across to Judith for the night. There’s a very decent inn there where we could stop.”
“Yes, I know the place. I’ll ask Cecily. Maybe she’d like it.”
It was the second week in April. Mrs. Warner did not especially approve of the trip, but Cecily had set her heart on it.
“Well,” compromised her mother, “if they drive slowly it probably won’t hurt you. Don’t go down any mines. And it’s still cold; take plenty of rugs.”
To balance the party they had asked Fliss, though, as Fliss said, she was not sure whether she was chaperoning Cecily or Cecily her, and they started off early on a Saturday morning, Matthew and Dick proving that it was a business trip by sitting together in the front seat. Lunch from thermos bottles and a picnic basket hardly halted them and they reached Allenby in the middle of the afternoon.
It was, as Matthew said, hardly a village. There was a railway station and about it were grouped houses and cheap stores flanking the side of brief indefinite streets of rutted red clay. Its newness was ugly, but, looking at it, one knew its age would be worse. It had no possibility of growing to charm and dignity from such beginnings. It was a necessity—nothing more. Their comments as they looked at it were characteristic. Fliss had the first word.