It is but rarely that we rise to the divine. Yet here was an opportunity, and down the steps she ran, light-footed, over the thin strip of lawn and into the deep laurels.
And it was not Tommy after all, but only the pale boy who, with commendable perspicacity, had borrowed Tommy's whistle.
For a moment Madge flushed angrily, for she did not greatly like the pale boy, and this was a deception.
But the morning was sweet, and the pale boy was surely better than a preposition.
"I say: let's go through the wood," he said. "I've hidden some sandwiches in a tree up there and we'll have a picnic, and you can be back in time for lunch."
"All right," said Madge, "come along."
And in the wood they met Tommy, with the light of resolve in his eye and battle written in his face.
Madge was not quite sure whether she was glad or sorry to meet him, nor could she tell, as they looked straight into one another's eyes, the nature of Tommy's feelings on the subject.
He looked a little grave, and spoke as one who had rehearsed against a probable encounter.