"No, you wouldn't. Not for six months or so, anyhow."
He laughed shamefacedly.
"Oh, well, of course I'm rotting. I can't drive a go-cart. Never had
the chance. Oh, I say, Robert, don't grouch. I didn't mean to be
rude. Of course, you're right in a way. But I get that sort of stuff
at home, and if I get it here I don't know what I'll do."
"Oh, you're right, too," Robert muttered. "It's not my business."
Cosgrave appealed sadly to Francey.
"He's wild with me. But a picnic--you'd think any human being might go
on a picnic----"
"You're going," she answered quietly, "and Robert too."
He did not take up the challenge. He was too miserable. He had not
meant to break out like that. As in the old days, he hungered for her
approval, her good smile of understanding. But as in the old days,
too, beneath it all, was the dim consciousness of an antagonism, of
their two wills poised against one another.
The car purred louder with exultation. It came sliding out into the
narrow, cobbled street. It waited a moment, gathering itself together.
"I wonder where it's going," Cosgrave dreamed. "I hope a jolly long
way--right to the other end of England. I'd like to think of it going
on and on through the whole world."
Christine leaned forward, peering out dimly.
"Are the trees out yet, Robert?"
They looked at her in silence. It was a strange thing to ask. And yet
not strange at all. All day long she sat there and saw nothing but the
squat, red-faced stable opposite.
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