“Not quite that.” Evans stood up. “I’m afraid I’m an awful preacher,” he apologized, “but you will ask questions.”
“Most grown-ups don’t answer them,” said Arthur, earnestly; “they just say, ‘Be good and let who will be clever.’”
“They’d better say ‘Be strong.’” Evans was reeling in his line. “We must be getting towards home. Do you see those shadows? We’ll be late——”
He stopped suddenly. There had been the crack of a twig and he had turned his eyes towards the sound. And there, poised above him, her eyes lighted up, her hands held out to him, her hat off, the warm wind blowing her bobbed black hair, blowing, too, the folds of the lilac frock back from her slender figure, stood Jane ... Jane....
He went charging up the bank towards her.
“My dear,” he said, “my dear.”
That was all. But he was there, holding her hands, devouring her with his eyes.
Then he dropped her hands. “I thought you were a ghost,” he said, a little awkwardly. “I called you up this morning and Sophy said you were in town.”
“I came out at noon. The day was so perfect. I had to see the Glen.”
“It is perfect. When I found you were out, I got the boys. I am taking a half-holiday after my trip.”