“I telephoned for a cab,” said Eric, as the train slowed into Maidenhead. “And a table. And a punt.” There was no answer; and he leaned towards her, lowering his voice to a whisper: “Ivy, I’ve been looking forward to this ever since last night.”
“I hope you won’t be disappointed in me,” she sighed.
“I shall only be disappointed if you don’t enjoy yourself.”
Ivy shivered and hid her face from him; but, as the arrangements for the day unfolded themselves, she could not help responding to his solicitude. Nothing had been forgotten, nothing could have been improved. They drove in comfort through the crowded, narrow streets of Maidenhead, while others struggled for cabs or resigned themselves to walking; a table was waiting for them by an open window, and intuition had warned him that she would want to lunch off lobster and strawberries. By luck or contrivance they were served by the most attentive waiter; the most comfortable chairs were ready for them at the water’s edge, when they came out to the lawn for coffee; and the sun blazed down on them from a cloudless sky. In the hotel several people had spoken or nodded to Eric; Grace Pentyre and Lady John Carstairs detached themselves from their parties to cross the lawn and compliment Ivy on her dress; she felt her self-respect reviving and surrendered to the enveloping atmosphere of well-being.
“You are good to me!,” she exclaimed suddenly, when Eric returned to her after ordering the punt to be made ready.
“Are you happy?,” he asked.
“I’m—enjoying myself.”
“Ah! that’s not enough... I don’t believe I’ve been to Maidenhead since I was an undergraduate.”
“Too much work? I’ve never had enough in one year to keep me busy for one day!,” she exclaimed impatiently.
“And I’ve always had more in one day than I could do in a year, ever since I was a small boy.”