CHAPTER XI THE LADY FROM THE PRIORY
Bang! The noise of the explosion reverberated through the clear summer air, and Ann, returning home from the village by way of a short cut through the woods, smiled to herself as she heard it. She knew that sound—the staccato percussion of a burst tyre—only too well.
The main road ran parallel with the woods, and, impelled by a friendly curiosity to know if she could be of any help, she branched off at right angles and turned her steps in its direction. As she approached she could discern between the tree-trunks a car, slewed round half across the road, and the figure of a woman standing beside it and bending over one of the wheels. Her very attitude betokened a certain helplessness and inexperience, and, seeing that she was alone, Ann quickened her pace.
“Can I help you at all?” she volunteered, as she reached the roadside.
The woman straightened herself.
“Oh, if you would!” she exclaimed, with obvious relief. “My tyre’s burst, and I’m ashamed to confess I haven’t the faintest idea what to do.”
Ann regarded her with interest. She was past her first girlhood, a woman of about thirty, and unusually beautiful. Even more beautiful now, perhaps, than she had been in earlier days, since, in taking the first freshness and bloom of youth, the years had given in exchange an arresting quality which is only born of suffering and experience—adding a deeper depth to her eyes, a certain strength of endurance to the exquisitely moulded mouth. Silky dark hair curved back beneath her close-fitting hat like a raven’s wing, sheathing her small, fine head. There was the same silky darkness, too, of brow and lashes, and when she lifted her long-fringed lids they revealed a pair of sad and very lovely eyes, the colour of a purple pansy.
“It was foolish of me to come out alone,” she pursued, as Ann proceeded in a business-like fashion to investigate the damage. “I’ve learned how to drive, but I know nothing at all about repairs, or how to put on a new tyre or stepney or anything.”