"And me, Daddy!" George shouted, but his father shook his head.
"No," he said doggedly, "not to-day. I just want mother."
"I'd love to come," said Marie readily.
Osborn was in a strange humour, like a fractious child, and she did more than bear with it. She ignored it altogether. As they drove out of London, the business of threading the maze of traffic kept him from talking even if he would, but when they had run into silence and the peace of the country, he was still quiet, gazing straight in front of him, his hat jammed down over his eyes and his jaw set rigid. At last he heard her voice saying:
"Isn't it lovely? I wish we had a car."
"We can have one if you like."
He drove on fast. Sometime this afternoon, when she had tasted the joy of the day and the comfort of the car, he would tell her about Sunday—no details, only the bleak blank fact:
"I shall be away all to-morrow; I'm motoring down to Brighton."
They went through Epsom and Leatherhead to more rustic villages beyond, and he pulled up at last on the summit of a great hill, fringed on either side with trees.
"This is a jolly place to stop for tea," he said, breaking his long silence. "I've got everything here."