He knew all the
Symford backs, and tourists hardly ever coming there, and never at
that time of the year, it could not, he thought, be the back of a
tourist. Nor could it belong to any one staying with the
Shuttleworths, for he had been there that very afternoon and had found
Lady Shuttleworth rejoicing over the brief period of solitude she and
her son were enjoying before the stream of guests for the coming of
age festivities began.
"Robin, what girl is that?" asked the vicar of his son.
"I'm sure I don't know," said Robin.
"She'll catch cold," said the vicar.
"I dare say," said Robin.
When they came out of the church ten minutes later Priscilla had not
moved.
"She'll certainly catch cold," said the vicar, concerned.
"I should think it very likely," said Robin, locking the door.
"She's sitting on a stone."
"Yes, on old Dawson's slab."
"Unwise," said the vicar.
"Profane," said Robin.
The vicar took his boy's arm again--the boy, head and shoulders taller
than his father, was down from Cambridge for the vacation then drawing
to its close--and moved, I fear, by the same impulse of pure curiosity
they walked together down the path that would take them right in front
of the young woman on the slab.
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