ng in your
car," cried the girl lightly.

"I, too, hope to be in Hereford to-night. Mrs. Devar says you mean to
spend Sunday there. If that is a fixed thing, and you can bear with me
for a few hours, I shall meet you there without fail."

"Come, by all means, if your road lies that way; but don't let us make
formal engagements. I love to think that I am drifting at will through
this land of gardens and apple blossom. And, just think of it--three
cathedrals in one day--a Minster for breakfast, lunch, and dinner,
with Tintern Abbey thrown in for afternoon tea. Such a wealth of
medievalism makes my head reel.... I was in there for matins," and she
nodded to the grave old pile rearing its massive Gothic within a few
paces of the hotel. "At high noon we shall visit Gloucester, and
to-night we shall see Hereford. All that within a short hundred miles,
to say nothing of Chepstow, Monmouth, the Wye Valley! Ah, me! I shall
never overtake my correspondence while there are so many glories to
describe. See, I have bought some darling little guidebooks which tell
you just what to say in a letter. What between judicious extracts and
a sheaf of picture postcards scribbled at each place I'll try and keep
my friends in good humor."

She produced from a pocket three of the red-covered volumes so
familiar to Americans in Britain--and to Britons themselves, for that
matter, when the belated discovery is made that it is not necessary to
cross the Channel in order to enjoy a holiday--and showed them
laughingly to Medenham.

"Now," she cried, "I am armed against you. No longer will you be able
to paralyze me with your learning. If you say 1269 at Tintern I shall
retort with 1387 at Monmouth. When you point out Nell Gwynne's
birthplace in Hereford, I shall take you to the Haven Inn, where David
Garrick was born, and, if you aren't very, very good, I shall tell you
how much the New Town Hall cost, and who laid the foundation stone."

Medenham alone held the key to the girl's lively mood, and it was a
novel and quite delightful sensation to be thus admitted to the inner
shrine of her emotions, as it were. She was chattering at random in
order to smooth away the awkwardness of meeting him after that
whispered indiscretion at their parting overnight. Here, at least,
Marigny was hopelessly at sea--_desoriente_, as he would have put
it--because he could not possibly know that Cynthia herself had
counseled the disappearance of Simmonds. Indeed,