"Skirt?" said Jonah.

"Skirt- thank you- till we come upon the carttrack."

"And then?" said I.

"Then we're all right," she said defiantly.

"Which means, that about two hours from now we shall, with a fine
disregard for the highest traditions of British pugilism, strike
the high road below the belt of firs, a good six miles from the
roof-tree we should never have left. God forgive you."

"Am I," said Berry, "am I to understand in cold blood that,
reckoning three miles to the league, some four leagues lie
directly between me and the muffins?"

"You are," said I.

"To think that my wife is a bag," he said wearily.

It was an autumn afternoon in the county of Devon. There were we
staying at a retired farmhouse, fleeting the time carelessly,
simply, healthily. Sickened by forty-eight hours of continuous
rain, we had fastened greedily upon the chance which a glorious
October day at length offered, and had set out, complete with
sandwiches, for one of the longer walks. Daphne constituted
herself guide. We never asked her to. But as such we just
accepted her. We were quite passive in the matter. Going, she