“Please go to Ada’s house first. Afterwards we’ll see about the dance.”
He bowed and swung the car left-handed through the lodge gates.
“Will you wait for me?” she said, as he pulled up at the front door.
“As long as you like,” he answered courteously.
“Because I may be some time,” she continued a little unevenly. “And don’t wait for me here: wait for me where the drive runs through that little copse, half-way down to the lodge.”
The next instant she had disappeared into the house, with the puppy in her arms. Why by the little copse? wondered the man as he slowly drove the car down the drive. The butler had seen them already, so what did it matter? He pulled up the car in the shadow of a big oak tree, and lit a cigarette. Then, with his arms resting on the steering wheel, he sat staring in front of him. He had done a mad thing, and she’d taken it wonderfully well. He always had done mad things all his life; he was made that way. But this was the maddest he had ever done. With a grim smile he pictured her infuriated partners, waiting in serried rows by the door, cursing him by all their gods. And then the smile faded, and he sighed, while his knuckles gleamed white on the wheel. If only she wasn’t so gloriously pretty; if only she wasn’t so utterly alive and wonderful. Well—it was the penalty of playing with fire; and it had been worth it. Yes; it had been worth it—even if the wound never quite healed.
“_A fool there was, and he made his prayer. . . ._”
He pitched his cigarette away, and suddenly he stiffened and sat motionless, while something seemed to rise in his throat and choke him, and the blood hammered hotly at his temples. A girl in white was standing not five feet from him on the fringe of the little wood: a girl holding a puppy in her arms. And then he heard her speaking.
“It’s not the same frock—but it’s the nearest I can do.”
She came up to the car, and once again over the head of the puppy their eyes met.
“I’ve been looking,” she said steadily, “for the real thing. I don’t _think_ I’ve found it—I _know_ I have.”
“My dear!” he stammered hoarsely. “Oh! my dear dream girl.”
“Take me back to the cliff, Desmond,” she whispered. “Take me back to our cliff.”
And an outraged puppy, bouncing off the running-board on to a stray fir-cone, viewed the proceedings of the next five minutes with silent displeasure.