Triona shrugged his shoulders and spanner in hand turned to the car he was doctoring, without a reply.
A few days afterwards Radnor said:
“We’re going to be married in August, and I don’t mind saying it’s mostly thanks to you.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” said Triona. “I’ll stick it out till then.”
“And then?”
“I’ll have the change you’ve been talking of.”
Radnor laughed. “You’ll let me have a bit of a honeymoon first, won’t you?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Triona. “You can have your honeymoon.”
The weakening incentive to life would last till September. He would make it last. It was now the beginning of June. Three months or so more wouldn’t matter. To carry on a meaningless existence further would be absurd. Indeed, it would be immoral. Of that, for some time past he had convinced himself.
England ran motor-mad that summer. It awoke to find war restrictions removed, roads free and petrol to be had for the buying. In its eagerness to race through a beloved land closed up for years and view or review historic spots of loveliness, and otherwise to indulge in its national vagabond humour it cared little for the price of petrol. The hiring garages, in anything like tourist centres, found their resources strained. Radnor bought another car, and still had more orders than he could execute. He drove one car himself.