“That’s where I’ll come in,” laughed Triona.
He had set his heart on this wash-out from the war making good. Just before Christmas he had an added incentive. A melancholy lady and a wistful pretty girl had flashed for a week end through Fanstead. They had come from London and had put up at The King’s Head. Radnor had made the tour of the proprietor through the garage.
“This is Mr. Briggs, my foreman, whom I’ve so often told you about.”
And afterwards, to Triona, with an air of inconsequence:
“A kind of aunt and cousin of mine who wanted to see how I was getting on.”
Poor old chap! Of course they wanted to see how he was getting on. The girl’s assessing eyes took in everything, himself included.
The unbidden phrase flashed through his brain.
“He shall marry the girl by Michaelmas Day!”
The sudden impishness of it delighted him.
“By God, he shall!” he swore to himself.