Mavis, babbling contentedly all through dinner, harped on the niceness both of people and things.  Mrs. Norton, and indeed everybody else, had been so nice about it.  All Rodchurch had seemed anxious to assist Mr. and Mrs. Dale in contriving their little maid’s holiday.  “And it is nice,” said Mavis simply, “to be treated like that.”  Mrs. Norton had taken her all round the vicarage garden, and she had never seen it looking nicer.  “Although the flowers aren’t anything to boast of, any more than ours are.”

“And what do you think?  Here’s a bit of news you’ll be sorry to hear, though it mayn’t surprise you.”  Then Mavis related how it had been necessary to procure some sort of trunk to hold Norah’s things, because there wasn’t a single presentable bit of luggage in the house, and she had discovered exactly what she wanted—­something that was not immoderate, appearing solid, yet not heavy—­at the new shop that had recently been opened at the bottom of the village near the Gauntlet Inn.  First, however, she had gone to their old friend the saddler’s, wanting to see if she could buy the box there.  But Mr. Allen’s shop was empty, woe-begone, dirty with cobwebs, dead flies, and mud on the window; and Mr. Allen himself was ill in bed, being nursed hand and foot, and fed like a baby, by poor Mrs. Allen.  He had been stricken down by some dreadful form of rheumatism, and three doctors had said the same thing—­that he had brought this calamity upon himself by his ridiculous, ceaseless tramping after the hounds.

Dale nodded and smiled, or made his face appropriately grave, while Mavis prattled to him; but truly his mind was occupied only by Norah.  She came in and out of the room, looking pale and limp and resigned; she knew all about the trunk, and that it was up-stairs and that already the mistress and Ethel had begun to pack it; she was submitting to destiny, but out of her soft blue eyes there shot a glance now and then that made him quiver with pain.

He went out of the house the moment dinner was finished, and kept moving about, now in the office, now in the yard, never still.  Then, when he was pottering round and round the office for the fiftieth time in two hours, he heard a footstep, and Norah came—­to whisper and cling to him, to make him kiss her again; to penetrate him with her ineffable sweetness; to plant the seeds of inextinguishable desire in the last few cells and fibers of his brain that as yet she had not reached.

“I don’t ast you to stand in th’ road when we drive away.  I’d rather not.  Say good-by to me now, when there’s nobody watchin’.”

Then he had to take her in his arms once more; and they stood close to the door, far from the window, pressed heart to heart, mute, throbbing.

“I’m kissing you,” she whispered presently, “but you’re not kissing me.  Kiss me.”

And he obeyed her.

“No,” she whispered.  “Different from that.  Kiss me like you did yesterday.”