“Wait and I’ll show you,” he said. “Do you think you could ride fourteen
miles to-morrow, seven there and seven back?”
“Rather,” I said.
“I’ll bring a sheet of paper for you and some wax and you can make a
rubbing. But you’d better ask your uncle if you can come.”
“I needn’t do that.”
“I think you’d better all the same.”
Mrs. Driffield gave me that peculiar look of hers, mischievous and yet
friendly, and I blushed scarlet. I knew that if I asked my uncle he
would say no. It would be much better to say nothing about it. But as we
rode along I saw coming toward us the doctor in his dogcart. I looked
straight in front of me as he passed in the vain hope that if I did not
look at him he would not look at me. I was uneasy. If he had seen me the
fact would quickly reach the ears of my uncle or my aunt and I
considered whether it would not be safer to disclose myself a secret
that could no longer be concealed. When we parted at the vicarage gates
(I had not been able to avoid riding as far as this in their company)
Driffield said that if I found I could come with them next day I had
better call for them as early as I could.
“You know where we live, don’t you? Next door to the Congregational
Church. It’s called Lime Cottage.”
When I sat down to dinner I looked for an opportunity to slip in
casually the information that I had by accident run across the
Driffields; but news travelled fast in Blackstable.
“Who were those people you were bicycling with this morning?” asked my
aunt. “We met Dr. Anstey in the town and he said he’d seen you.”
My uncle, chewing his roast beef with an air of disapproval, looked
sullenly at his plate.
“The Driffields,” I said with nonchalance. “You know, the author. Mr.
Galloway knows them.”
“They’re most disreputable people,” said my uncle. “I don’t wish you to
associate with them.”
“Why not?” I asked.
“I’m not going to give you my reasons. It’s enough that I don’t wish
it.”
“How did you ever get to know them?” asked my aunt.
“I was just riding along and they were riding along, and they asked me
if I’d like to ride with them,” I said, distorting the truth a little.
“I call it very pushing,” said my uncle.
I began to sulk. And to show my indignation when the sweet was put on
the table, though it was raspberry tart which I was extremely fond of, I
refused to have any. My aunt asked me if I was not feeling very well.
“Yes,” I said, as haughtily as I could, “I’m feeling all right.”
“Have a little bit,” said my aunt.
“I’m not hungry,” I answered.
“Just to please me.”
“He must know when he’s had enough,” said my uncle.