"Hello! Here's Mr. Ingpen!" announced George, as he threw the coloured rug on the mare.
Ingpen, pale and thickly enveloped, came slowly round the bend of the road, waving and smiling. He had had a relapse, after a too early sortie, and was recovering from it.
"I made sure you'd be about here," he said, shaking hands. "Merry Christmas, all!"
"Ought you to be out, my lad?" Edwin asked heartily.
"Out? Yes. I'm as fit as a fiddle. And I've been ordered mild exercise." He squared off gaily against George and hit the stout adolescent in the chest.
"What about all your parcels, Hilda?" Edwin enquired.
"Oh! We'll call for them afterwards."
"Afterwards?"
"Yes. Come along--before you catch a chill." She winked openly at Ingpen, who returned the wink. "Come along, dear. It's not far. We have to walk across the fields."
"Put her up, sir?" the stableman demanded of Edwin.