Suddenly she freed herself.

"Here's Uncle Hilary!" It was indeed Hilary, with Miranda, trotting in advance.

His hands were crossed behind him, his face bent towards the ground.

The two young people on the bench sat looking at him.
"Buried in self-contemplation," murmured Martin; "that's the way he always walks.

I shall tell him about this!" The colour of Thyme's face deepened from rose to crimson.
"No!" "Why not ?" "Well--those new---" She could not bring out that word "clothes." It would have given her thoughts away.
Hilary seemed making for their seat, but Miranda, aware of Martin, stopped.