"Sorry? Oh, no. It is so good of you, Jack, and the weather is perfect—we could not have had a better day."
Their depression vanished like a summer cloud, as they rode through Twickenham and Teddington, under the shade of the great trees, enjoying the occasional views of the shining river, and the peeps into the walled gardens of the fine old houses.
"It is all new to me," said Madge, with a sigh. "I used to go to Hampton Court with father on Sundays, but that was long ago; he doesn't take me anywhere now, except to the theatre once or twice a year."
"It is a shame," Jack replied indignantly, "when you enjoy things so much."
"Oh, but I dearly love Strand-on-the-Green. I am very happy there."
"And you never long for a wider life?"
"Yes—sometimes. I want to go abroad and travel. It must be delightful to see the places and countries one has read about, to roam in foreign picture galleries."
"I would like to show you the Continent," said Jack. "We have the same tastes, and—"
A rapturous "Oh!" burst from Madge. They had turned suddenly in at the gates of Bushey Park, and before them was the twenty-mile-long perspective of the chestnut avenue, bounded by the white sunlit walls of the hospitable Greyhound. The girl's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and in her excitement, as some fresh bit of beauty was revealed, she rested a tiny gloved hand on Jack's arm.
"I will take you out often, if you will let me," he said.