“O, Aunt Etarre,” said Lisa prettily, “this is perfect of you. Isn’t it, Eric?”
The way that Eric shook the hand of Pelleas three times on the way to the gate might have indicated to some that he thought it was.
Yet there we were, hastening out in the world to find a possible obstacle to all that innocent joy. Never before had we been guilty of such disaffection or even of prudence in such a cause.
“Pelleas, O Pelleas,” I said as we hurried down the lane for a carriage, “but suppose it doesn’t turn out as we think? Suppose Dudley Manners is furious, suppose he guesses where they are and suppose—?”
“Pooh,” said Pelleas in splendid disdain. “Dudley Manners. Thirty years ago I took a polo championship away from him when he was looking directly at me.”
And it needed no more than this and the sun in the lane to reassure me.
From a warlike-looking farmer, a friend of ours living at the lane’s end, we got a low phaeton and a tall horse which we had made occasion to use before. The drive to Chynmere occupied hardly half an hour, and when we saw the tower of the Hall above the chestnuts and before us the high English wall of the park cutting the roadside sward we looked at each other in sudden breathless abashment. After all, Lisa was Dudley Manners’ ward, not ours. After all, two years in Europe are commonly accepted as desirable for a girl of twenty. In that black hour as we drew rein at the lordly entrance of Chynmere Hall itself I felt myself obliged to call up the essential horror of the situation.
“Pelleas,” I said, “remember: they love each other as much as ever we did. And remember: two years with an authority on plant life in Alaska.”
“Monstrous,” said Pelleas firmly.
On which we went bravely up the steps.