"Yes. And give her a bit of a rub down," he replied absently, remembering various references of Hilda's to a surprise. His heart misgave him. Ingpen and Hilda looked like plotters, very intimate and mischievous. He had a notion that living with a woman was comparable to living with a volcano--you never knew when a dangerous eruption might not occur.
Within three minutes the first and minor catastrophe had occurred.
"Bit sticky, this field path of yours," said Edwin, uneasily.
They were all four slithering about in brown clay under a ragged hedge in which a few red berries glowed.
"It was as hard as iron the day before yesterday," said Hilda.
"Oh! So you were here the day before yesterday, were you? ... What's that house there?" Edwin turned to Ingpen.
"He's guessed it in one!" Ingpen murmured, and then went off into his characteristic crescendo laugh.
The upper part of a late eighteenth-century house, squat and square, with yellow walls, black uncurtained windows, high slim chimney, and a blue slate roof, showed like a gigantic and mysterious fruit in a clump of variegated trees, some of which were evergreen.
"Ladderedge Hall, my boy," said Ingpen. "Seat of the Beechinors for about a hundred years."
"'Seat', eh!" Edwin murmured sarcastically.