They plodded on down the overgrown path, he in front, in silence.
"And we will live together and make a life together, won't we?" she pleaded.
"Ay!" he replied, striding on without looking round. "When t' time comes! Just now you're off to Venice or somewhere."
She followed him dumbly, with sinking heart. Oh, now she was to go!
At last he stopped.
"I'll just strike across here," he said, pointing to the right.
But she flung her arms round his neck, and clung to him.
"But you'll keep the tenderness for me, won't you?" she whispered. "I loved last night. But you'll keep the tenderness for me, won't you?"
He kissed her and held her close for a moment. Then he sighed, and kissed her again.
"I must go an' look if th' car's there."
He strode over the low brambles and bracken, leaving a trail through the fern. For a minute or two he was gone. Then he came striding back.
"Car's not there yet," he said. "But there's the baker's cart on t' road."
He seemed anxious and troubled.
"Hark!"
They heard a car softly hoot as it came nearer. It slowed up on the bridge.
She plunged with utter mournfulness in his track through the fern, and came to a huge holly hedge. He was just behind her.
"Here! Go through there!" he said, pointing to a gap. "I shan't come out."
She looked at him in despair. But he kissed her and made her go. She crept in sheer misery through the holly and through the wooden fence, stumbled down the little ditch and up into the lane, where Hilda was just getting out of the car in vexation.
"Why, you're there!" said Hilda. "Where's he?"
"He's not coming."
Connie's face was running with tears as she got into the car with her little bag. Hilda snatched up the motoring helmet with the disfiguring goggles.
