But the silence was not broken, only lifted. Her hand crept a little farther into the crook of his arm. It was as they passed the spick-and-span white-painted windmill at New Romney that he said: "Don't you think it would be nicer to buy a windmill? There are four stories to that, and you can shift the top one around so that your window's always away from the wind." "Yes," she said, "we really ought to buy a windmill." The "we" lay warm at his heart until they came near Rye that stands upon its hill, looking over the marshes to the sea that deserted it so many years ago. "There's a clock in Rye church that Sir Walter Raleigh presented to the town," he said, instructively. "And Henry James lived there," said she. "Shall we have lunch at the Mermaid Tavern? Or would you rather have a picnic? I've got a basket." "How clever of you! Of course we'll have the picnic. And it's quite early. How beautifully the car is going!" "Yes, isn't she?" "Has she a name yet?" "No. You must christen her." "I should call her Time, because she flies so fast." "You'd have to particularize. All time doesn't fly." "No," she said, "ah, no! And she ought to have a splendid sort of name, she is so magnificently triumphant over space and time. Raleigh would have called her the 'Gloriana.'" "So will we," said he. And they left Rye behind, and again the silence folded them round, and still her hand lay close in the crook of his arm. At Winchelsea she suddenly asked, "Where's Charles?" "Charles," he said, gravely, "is visiting my old nurse. He is well and happy--a loved and honored guest." "The dear!" she said, absently. They were nearing Hastings before he spoke again, almost in a whisper, and this time what he said was what he meant to say. "Are you happy?" he asked. And she said, "Yes!" It was at Hurstmonceaux that they opened the picnic basket--Hurstmonceaux, the great ruined Tudor castle, all beautiful in red brick and white stone. Less than a hundred years ago it was perfect to the last brick of it. But its tall old twisted red chimneys smoked. So a Hastings architect was called in. "I cannot cure your smoky chimneys, sir," said he, "but with the lead and some of the bricks of your castle I can build you a really comfortable and convenient modern house in the corner of your park, and I pledge you my word as an architect that the chimneys of the new house sha'n't smoke." So he did, and they didn't. And Hurstmonceaux was turned from a beautiful house to a beautiful ruin, and no one can live there; but parties of sightseers and tourists can be admitted on Mondays and Thursdays for a fee of sixpence a head, children half-price. All of which she read to him from the _Guide to Sussex_, as they sat in the grass-grown courtyard, where moss and wild flowers have covered the mounds of fallen brick. "But this isn't Monday or Thursday," she said. "How did you get in?"