He could not so have violated
his best instincts, letting other people into the secret of her value,
and giving himself away. He made no reply.
They had struck into a half-made road across a warren. A cart-track led
at right-angles to a gravel pit, beyond which the chimneys of a cottage
rose amongst a clump of trees at the border of a thick wood. Tussocks of
feathery grass covered the rough surface of the ground, and out of these
the larks soared into the hate of sunshine. On the far horizon, over a
countless succession of fields and hedges, rose a line of downs.
Soames led till they had crossed to the far side, and there he stopped.
It was the chosen site; but now that he was about to divulge the spot to
another he had become uneasy.
"The agent lives in that cottage," he said; "he'll give us some
lunch--we'd better have lunch before we go into this matter."
He again took the lead to the cottage, where the agent, a tall man named
Oliver, with a heavy face and grizzled beard, welcomed them. During
lunch, which Soames hardly touched, he kept looking at Bosinney, and
once or twice passed his silk handkerchief stealthily over his forehead.
The meal came to an end at last, and Bosinney rose.
"I dare say you've got business to talk over," he said; "I'll just go
and nose about a bit.
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