“You English do not care to travel on a Sunday, I notice.”
“We English! Allow me to remind Mademoiselle that she is just as much English as are the rest of us.”
Katrine smiled.
“My good mother instilled all kinds of old-world notions into me, Katrine. Amongst them was that of never doing week-day work on a Sunday unless compelled by necessity.”
“Do you never work on a Sunday—at your reviews and writings, and all that?”
“Never. I am sure it would not bring me luck if I did. Suppose we fix Thursday for walking to Church Leet?”
“That will do nicely. Unless—Squire Todhetley invited you to go with him to Evesham one day, you know,” broke off Katrine. “He may just fix upon Thursday.”
“In that case we will take our walk on Friday.”
A silence ensued. Their hearts were very full, and that makes speech reticent. Katrine glanced now and again at the pages of the “Vicar of Wakefield,” which lay in her lap, but she did not read it. As to the barrister, he was looking at her; at the face that had become so dear to him. They might never meet again, nothing on earth might come of the present intimacy and the sweet burning longings, but he knew that he should remember her to the end of time. A verse of one of Moore’s melodies passed through his mind: unconsciously he began to hum it: