It came from Hawkesbury.
“Are you doing anything particular on Monday?” he asked me, a day or two before the holiday.
“No; I half thought of going home, but I can’t afford that, so I may go to the British Museum.”
“Not a very cheerful place to spend a holiday,” laughed Hawkesbury. “What do you say to coming a quiet drive with me?”
Had the invitation come from Crow or Daly, or even Doubleday, I should have regarded it shyly. But Hawkesbury was a steady fellow, I thought, and not likely to lead one into mischief.
“I should like it awfully!” I said, “only—that is—I don’t think I can afford it.”
“Oh!” said he, smiling affably, “you shan’t be at any expense at all. It’s my affair, and I should like to take you with me.”
Of course my gratitude was as profuse as it was sincere.
“My idea was,” continued Hawkesbury, “to get a dogcart for the day and go somewhere in the direction of Windsor, taking our own provender with us, and having a jolly healthy day in the open air.”
Nothing could be more delightful or more in accordance with my own wishes.