whim,” she said: “but only because that wood looks nice and cool and I want my lunch. I’m sick of this ‘Girl Guide’ business, and that’s a fact.”
“Sorry,” said I. “I forgot it was Ascot week.”
“Ascot be damned,” said Audrey. “I’d rather be here than there. But I want to do something worthwhile. In the last two months I’ve drunk enough speculation to float a fleet. And I never did like soft drinks.”
“I’ll fight you on your own ground. What else can we do? It’s no good calling Barabbas to come and be killed.”
She made no answer to that, and two minutes later, perhaps, we came to the end of the track above which the coppice stood.
As I had done so often, I took our lunch and her cushion out of the boot: then I climbed, with her behind me, until I came to the trees.
Almost at once I found an agreeable spot, where the ground rose very sharply and then fell flat, to make a natural landing some four yards square. The sun was so hot that only to stand in the shade was refreshing enough; but when I turned – to survey the rolling country, spread out like a map, and, beyond, the glitter of The Channel and, above, the elegant flash that argued an aeroplane, then I saw that, whim or no, I had not wasted our time, because I had brought us both to a perfect dining-room.
But though I piped to my lady, she would not dance, She laid her glasses aside and she ate and drank; but she made no effort to talk, and the scornful look I dreaded was back in her face.
At length I threw in my hand, picked my binocular up and began to rake the country which I had come to know; while she lay supine beside me, her slender ankles crossed and her fingers laced together behind her head, searching the maze of canopies hanging above and watching the higher lattices sway to each idle breeze.
So for perhaps ten minutes. Then I lowered my glasses and got to my feet.
“I shan’t be long,” I said. “I’m going on through the wood to the head of the bluff.”
“To make perfectly sure that the crossroads at Cerf haven’t moved.”
“The answer to that,” said I, “is extremely short. I don’t propose to make it, because it’s extremely rude. But—”
“Don’t be so damned conscientious.”
“Audrey Nuneham,” said I, “you’ve got me wrong. I’ve set my heart on doing a certain thing. Some people might call it murder, but that’s neither here nor there. Now I don’t know how to go about it, except by the way I’ve been shown. It’s a damnably roundabout way – I’ll give you that. But as I know no other, and I want what I want so much, my common sense – not my conscience – is keeping me up to the bit.”
“Very beautiful,” said Audrey. “There is no god but Mansel, and John Bagot is his prophet.”
I leaned against a tree and fingered my chin.
“You’re a difficult girl,” I said. “I can bear the naked truth; but you serve the damsel up in her underclothes. And that’s embarrassing.”
“Then you stop trotting her out in an angel’s kit – one bare foot and a face and a shapeless robe.”
“I was nicely brought up,” said I.
“God knows you were,” said Audrey. “And God knows what it must cost you to muck in with me like this. Your bishop will never believe it was all OK.”
“He would,” said I, “if he saw that look on your face.”
“What d’you expect – darling? We’re not on parade.”
I sighed.
“‘At times like this,” said I, “I could wish we were.”
“Only at times like this? I’m much obliged.”
“All the time,” said I. “Scratch the curate, you know, and you find the man.”
“How nice for you,” said Audrey. “And what about me?” She sat up and smacked the turf. “Don’t be so damned self-centred.”
“That’s rather hard,” said I. “You wring the truth out of me: and then, when you’ve got it, you rub my nose in it.”
Audrey expired.
“Will you try, for one boring moment, to look at this show with my
“Sorry,” said I. “I forgot it was Ascot week.”
“Ascot be damned,” said Audrey. “I’d rather be here than there. But I want to do something worthwhile. In the last two months I’ve drunk enough speculation to float a fleet. And I never did like soft drinks.”
“I’ll fight you on your own ground. What else can we do? It’s no good calling Barabbas to come and be killed.”
She made no answer to that, and two minutes later, perhaps, we came to the end of the track above which the coppice stood.
As I had done so often, I took our lunch and her cushion out of the boot: then I climbed, with her behind me, until I came to the trees.
Almost at once I found an agreeable spot, where the ground rose very sharply and then fell flat, to make a natural landing some four yards square. The sun was so hot that only to stand in the shade was refreshing enough; but when I turned – to survey the rolling country, spread out like a map, and, beyond, the glitter of The Channel and, above, the elegant flash that argued an aeroplane, then I saw that, whim or no, I had not wasted our time, because I had brought us both to a perfect dining-room.
But though I piped to my lady, she would not dance, She laid her glasses aside and she ate and drank; but she made no effort to talk, and the scornful look I dreaded was back in her face.
At length I threw in my hand, picked my binocular up and began to rake the country which I had come to know; while she lay supine beside me, her slender ankles crossed and her fingers laced together behind her head, searching the maze of canopies hanging above and watching the higher lattices sway to each idle breeze.
So for perhaps ten minutes. Then I lowered my glasses and got to my feet.
“I shan’t be long,” I said. “I’m going on through the wood to the head of the bluff.”
“To make perfectly sure that the crossroads at Cerf haven’t moved.”
“The answer to that,” said I, “is extremely short. I don’t propose to make it, because it’s extremely rude. But—”
“Don’t be so damned conscientious.”
“Audrey Nuneham,” said I, “you’ve got me wrong. I’ve set my heart on doing a certain thing. Some people might call it murder, but that’s neither here nor there. Now I don’t know how to go about it, except by the way I’ve been shown. It’s a damnably roundabout way – I’ll give you that. But as I know no other, and I want what I want so much, my common sense – not my conscience – is keeping me up to the bit.”
“Very beautiful,” said Audrey. “There is no god but Mansel, and John Bagot is his prophet.”
I leaned against a tree and fingered my chin.
“You’re a difficult girl,” I said. “I can bear the naked truth; but you serve the damsel up in her underclothes. And that’s embarrassing.”
“Then you stop trotting her out in an angel’s kit – one bare foot and a face and a shapeless robe.”
“I was nicely brought up,” said I.
“God knows you were,” said Audrey. “And God knows what it must cost you to muck in with me like this. Your bishop will never believe it was all OK.”
“He would,” said I, “if he saw that look on your face.”
“What d’you expect – darling? We’re not on parade.”
I sighed.
“‘At times like this,” said I, “I could wish we were.”
“Only at times like this? I’m much obliged.”
“All the time,” said I. “Scratch the curate, you know, and you find the man.”
“How nice for you,” said Audrey. “And what about me?” She sat up and smacked the turf. “Don’t be so damned self-centred.”
“That’s rather hard,” said I. “You wring the truth out of me: and then, when you’ve got it, you rub my nose in it.”
Audrey expired.
“Will you try, for one boring moment, to look at this show with my
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