“Cousin Di!—where can she be? Cousin Di, Master Rockhurst…!”
There was Lionel Ratcliffe, on the terrace above them, shouting into space through the hollow of his hands; and beside him Edward Hare, consumed with laughter.
Young Rockhurst stamped his foot; but Diana (not displeased, perhaps, at the interruption) glanced calmly up.
“Here I am, Cousin Lionel—and here, as you can see, is Harry.”
Ratcliffe leant across the balustrade, wiping his face as though heated.
“Oh, how I have sought for you!” he called.
“So it seems,” retorted she, ironically, “with apparently never a thought to cast a glance over the wall.”
He grinned. She was the dearer to him for her sharp wits, and for a tongue that was even a match for his own. But what answer he would have made was lost in a new interruption: the sound of a postboy’s horn rose swelling through the quiet airs, and almost immediately the bell clanged from the castle’s gate. Then came calls, shouts, and rumours. Ratcliffe straightened himself from his leaning posture:—
“What have we here?” he cried. “Ha—Mistress Alicia!”
A stout, elderly lady appeared at the head of the terrace steps.