It was past noon when they turned home. The distances were dim, hazed with mist and sunshine. A faint wind was stirring in the trees, and now and then a shower of golden leaves swept into the lane, whirled round, then fluttered slowly to the grass. Some rain had fallen early in the morning, and the hedges were still wet, sending up sweet steams of perfume to the cloud-latticed sky.
Nigel spoke suddenly.
"Do your parents know about me?"
"They know about East Grinstead, but not about Brambletye."
"Shall you tell them?"
"No—I don't think I shall. I—I'm not at all sure what they'd say if they knew all the facts."
"Nor am I," said Nigel grimly.
"Besides, I hate telling people about things I really enjoy—it spoils it all, somehow. You don't think it's wrong, do you?"
"No—why should it be?"
"I don't know—only whenever a thing's absolutely heavenly, one can't help thinking there's something wrong about it."