In the midst of it, and while Ruth listened eagerly to what Diana had to tell of London fashions, Lady Caroline's voice was heard summoning her daughter away.
Diana rose. "It is close upon dusk," she said, "and Mrs. Harry has command of the waggon. She drives very well—not better than I perhaps; but she understands this country better. All the same, the road—call it an apology for one—bristles with tree-stumps, and mamma's temper will be unendurable if the dark overtakes us before we reach the next farm. I forget its name."
"Natchett?"
"Yes, Natchett. We spend the night there."
"But why did not Mr. Silk drive you over?"
"Did mamma tell you he was escorting us?"
"No. I guessed."
"Nasty little fellow. Sloppy underlip. I cannot bear him. Can you?"
"I do not like him."
"It's a marvel to me that my cousin tolerates him. . . . By the way, I shall not wonder if he—Oliver, I mean—loses his temper heavily when he learns of our expedition, and bundles us straight back to Europe. I warned mamma."