"Oh, let's go home," said Joan, with a suspicion of tears in her voice.
William looked at her desperately.
"I can't go home like this," he said, hoarse with emotion. "I can't go through the village wearin' a table-cloth. Everybody'd be laughing at me. No one's ever done it before—not walked through the village in a table-cloth—it'd make me ridic'l'us for the rest of my life."
He sat down, staring despondently in front of him.
"Oh, William, what will you do?"
"I'll stay here till midnight—till everyone else is in bed, an' I'll go home then. You'd better be gettin' home now."
"Oh, William—I couldn't, William. I'll go an' get you something from our house. I'll get you some of Daddy's clothes. Oh, William!"
William, deeply touched, could only stare at her and mutter gratefully. "Thanks—thanks, he's bigger'n me, but they'll do—anything'll do."
He watched her anxiously through the dusty little window of the summer-house as she crept to the hole in the hedge and disappeared. Then he heaved a deep sigh, drew his covering around him, sat down on the summer-house seat and waited.
He was not left in peace for long. The voice which had first broken in upon their desert island sounded again—this time nearer. It was evidently walking round the garden with a sympathetic friend.