At last that opportunity came. Marjorie had come with her mother into
the village, and while Mrs. Pope made some purchases at the general shop
she walked on to speak to Mrs. Blythe the washerwoman. Trafford suddenly
emerged from the Red Lion with a soda syphon under each arm. She came
forward smiling.
"I say," he said forthwith, "I want to talk with you--badly."
"And I," she said unhesitatingly, "with you."
"How can we?"
"There's always people about. It's absurd."
"We'll have to meet."
"Yes."
"I have to go away to-morrow. I ought to have gone two days ago. Where
_can_ we meet?"
She had it all prepared.
"Listen," she said. "There is a path runs from our shrubbery through a
little wood to a stile on the main road." He nodded. "Either I will be
there at three or about half-past five or--there's one more chance.
While father and Mr. Magnet are smoking at nine.... I might get away."
"Couldn't I write?"
"No. Impossible."
"I've no end of things to say...."
Mrs. Pope appeared outside her shop, and Trafford gesticulated a
greeting with the syphons. "All right," he said to Marjorie. "I'm
shopping," he cried as Mrs. Pope approached.