On and on they went, up the hills and down into the valleys, between rail fences which were a riot of honeysuckle, and with the roads in places rough under their wheels, with the fields gold with stubble, the sky a faint blue, with that thick look on the horizon.
George talked a great deal about himself. Perhaps if he had listened instead to Becky he might have learned things which would have surprised him. But he really had very interesting things to tell, and Becky was content to sit in silence and watch his hands on the wheel. They were small hands, and for some tastes a bit too plump and well-kept, but Becky found no fault with them. She felt that she could sit there forever, and watch his hands and listen to his clear quick voice.
At last George glanced at the little clock which hung in front of him. "Look here," he said, "I told Kemp to have tea for us at a place which I found once when I walked in the woods. A sort of summer house which looks towards Monticello. Do you know it?"
"Yes. Pavilion Hill. It's on Randy Paine's plantation—King's Crest."
"Then you've been there?"
"A thousand times with Randy."
"I thought it was Waterman's. We shan't be jailed as trespassers, shall we?"
"No. But how could you tell your man to have tea for us when you didn't know that I'd be—willing?"
"But I did—know——"