And Irene, though she said nothing, inwardly agreed with him. They rushed on, the gale blew steadily in their faces. The road forked; Lord Hovenden turned the nose of his machine along the leftward branch. They lost sight of the blue water. “Good-bye, Trasimene,” said Irene regretfully. It was a lovely lake; she wished she could remember what had happened there. The road began to climb and twist; the wind abated to a mere half gale. From the top of the hill, Irene was surprised to see the blue waters, which she had just taken leave of for ever, sparkling two or three hundred feet below on the left. At the joyous sight Miss Elver clapped her hands and shouted. “Hullo,” Irene said, surprised. “That’s odd, isn’t it?” “Taken ve wrong road,” Hovenden explained. “We’re going norf again up ve east side of ve lake. We’ll go right round. It’s too much bore to stop and turn.” They rushed on. For a long time neither of them spoke. Behind them Miss Elver hooted her greetings to every living creature on the road. They were filled with happiness and joy; they would have liked to go on like this for ever. They rushed on. On the north shore of the lake the road straightened itself out and became flat again. The wind freshened. Far off on their respective hills Cortona and Montepulciano moved slowly, as they rushed along, like fixed stars. And now they were on the west shore once more. Perched on its jutting peninsula Castiglione del Lago reflected itself complacently in the water. “Pretty good,” shouted Lord Hovenden in the teeth of the hurricane. “By the way,” he added, “wasn’t it Hannibal or somebody who had a battle here? Wiv elephants, or somefing.” “Perhaps it was,” said Irene. “Not vat it matters in ve least.” “Not in the least.” She laughed under her mask. Hovenden laughed too. He was happy, he was joyful, he was daring. “Would you marry me if I asked you?” he said. The question followed naturally and by a kind of logic from what they had been saying about Hannibal and his elephants. He did not look at her as he asked the question; when one is doing sixty-seven one must keep one’s eyes on the road. “Don’t talk nonsense,” said Irene. “I’m not talking nonsense,” Lord Hovenden protested. “I’m asking a straightforward question. Would you marry me?” “No.” “Why not?” “I don’t know,” said Irene. They had passed Castiglione. The fixed stars of Montepulciano and Cortona had set behind them. “Don’t you like me?” shouted Lord Hovenden. The wind had swelled into a hurricane. “You know I do.” “Ven why not?” “Because, because ... oh, I don’t know. I wish you’d stop talking about it.” The machine rushed on. Once more they were running along the southern shore. A hundred yards before the forking of the roads, Lord Hovenden broke silence. “Will you marry me?” he asked. “No,” said Irene. Lord Hovenden turned the nose of his machine to the left. The road climbed and twisted, the wind of their speed abated.