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He had inherited from a scholarly father a keen interest in church architecture, and he had read an account of Darnaston church the night before in the book which dealt with Wyndfell Hall and its surroundings. They were met in the porch by the bachelor rector. "This is really kind!" he exclaimed.
Her only sheet anchor of comfort during that long, dull afternoon and evening was the thought that Bubbles' life was set on the right lines at last ... and that Mark Gifford had not changed. "HONBLE. BLANCHE FARROW Wyndfell Hall Darnaston Suffolk Very private Meet me outside Darnaston Church at twelve o'clock, midday, to-morrow, Wednesday MARK GIFFORD."
It marked ten minutes to twelve on the tower of the ancient chantry church of Darnaston as Blanche Farrow walked across the village green and past the group of thatched cottages composing the pretty hamlet which looks so small compared with its noble house of God.
She knew him well enough to be sure that he would be in good time; but, even so, there was more than an hour to be got through somehow before she could start for Darnaston. She went up to Bubbles' room. Yes, the girl looked marvellously better younger too, quite different! There came a knock at the door while she was there, and Donnington came in.
Then she began asking herself the sort of rather futile questions people do ask themselves, when puzzled, and made uneasy by what seems an inexplicable occurrence. How would Mark get to Darnaston by twelve o'clock to-day? Surely he could only do so by starting before it was light, and motoring the whole way from London? She gazed at the words "very private." What did they portend?
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