well as Sunday. He
drove home to Hampstead in the blue Runaway, with its silver fittings
winking in the sun, and garaged it near by.

He came in rather morosely, and was thoughtful over lunch, saying
little, till at the end of the meal he lifted his eyes to his wife's
tranquil face and said suddenly:

"I brought a car home. I want to take you for a run."

"And me, Daddy!" George shouted, but his father shook his head.

"No," he said doggedly, "not to-day. I just want mother."

"I'd love to come," said Marie readily.

Osborn was in a strange humour, like a fractious child, and she did
more than bear with it. She ignored it altogether. As they drove out
of London, the business of threading the maze of traffic kept him from
talking even if he would, but when they had run into silence and the
peace of the country, he was still quiet, gazing straight in front of
him, his hat jammed down over his eyes and his jaw set rigid. At last
he heard her voice saying:

"Isn't it lovely? I wish we had a car."

"We can have one if you like."

He drove on fast. Sometime this afternoon, when she had tasted the joy
of the day and the comfort of the car, he would tell her about
Sunday--no details, only the bleak blank fact:

"I shall be away all to-morrow; I'm motoring down to Brighton."

They went through Epsom and Leatherhead to more rustic villages
beyond, and he pulled up at last on the summit of a great hill,
fringed on either side with trees.

"This is a jolly place to stop for tea," he said, breaking his long
silence. "I've got everything here."

As he pulled out a tea basket from the back of the car she watched him
calmly. She still thought him excessively good-looking. In their
engaged days they had often escaped into the country--but on foot--and
picnicked together; each had known the other to be the most wonderful
person in the world. Now that love had passed the memory was well
worth keeping, and she enjoyed it quietly as she sat in the car,
looking down upon the back of his head bent over his task. He sat down
again, opening the basket between them, and set up the spirit stove
and lighted it for her to boil the minute kettle upon it. While she
did this, it was his turn to watch her; and presently from his
moroseness he said in a very soft voice:

"It's like old days, isn't it?"

"Only we're more gorgeous."

"You're enjoying it?"

"Immensely. Why wouldn't you take George?"

"I didn't want him. Did you?"