"London?" she said. "London? There's no such place!"
"Glad you came?" he asked.
"Glad!" Her tone was enough.
"That's a jolly green hat," he said, and made her a little bow.
"Glad you like it," she laughed. "And that's a jolly staff."
He showed it off proudly. "Work of art," he said. "I made one just like it when I was here the summer I was twelve—I remembered it this morning when I woke up, and I came out to get this one."
She admired it critically, particularly the initials of the dark bark left on, but suggested an improvement about the knob.
"By Jove! you're right," he admitted, and set to work with his knife.
They were like two youngsters out of school. All morning they idled out-of-doors, exploring the little lanes that led off into the buff-colored hills, returning at noon, ravenous, to lunch in the dining-room of the inn, parting afterward in the corridor, and going to their own rooms to rest and read. At four Ayling tapped at her door to say that there was in the sitting-room "an absolutely enormous tea."
That night, before a beautiful fire in the sitting-room, they caught each other yawning at half past nine, and at ten they said good-night.