Sarah shot a keen glance of inquiry at his moody face.
"Well," she said, in resigned tones, "I did hope to finish my lunch in peace. I saw there was something the matter when you came striding up the hill without a word, but I thought it was only that you found the basket too heavy. Of course, if I had known it was only to be lunch for one, I would not have put in so many things; and certainly not a whole bottle of papa's best claret. In fact, if I had known I was to picnic practically alone, I would not have crossed the river at all."
Then she saw that Peter was in earnest, and with a sigh of regret,
Sarah returned the dish of jam-puffs to the basket.
"I couldn't talk sense, or even listen to it, with those heavenly puffs under my very nose," she said. "Now, what is it?"
"I hate telling you—I hate talking of it," said Peter, and a dark flush rose to his frowning eyebrows. He threw himself once more at Sarah's feet, and turned his face away from her, and towards the blue streak of distant sea. "John Crewys wants to marry—my mother," he said in choking tones.
"Is that all?" said Sarah. "I've seen that for ages. Aren't you glad?"
"Glad!" said Peter.
"I thought," Sarah said innocently, "that you wanted to marry me?"
"Sarah!"
"Well!" said Sarah. She looked rather oddly at Peter's recumbent figure. Then she pushed the loosened waves of her red hair from her forehead with a determined gesture. "Well," she said defiantly, "isn't that one obstacle to our marriage removed? Your aunts will go to the Dower House, and your mother will leave Barracombe, and you'll have the place all to yourself. And you dare to tell me you're sorry?"