"And you restored it?"
"No indeed, Mr. Fletcher resurrected the poor old tennis ground—wasn't it good of him?"
"He plays himself, of course?"
"Oh no, he is quite old—much older than father. We have lived with him, since I came out."
"Were you long at home?"
"Eleven endless years. Daddy came over four times to see me; only for that, I believe I'd have died. Here are the Hicks!"—pointing to a party who were riding up the road in Indian file. "The stout lady on the white pony is Mrs. Hicks, or ''Icks'—she drops her aitches all over the place; once someone sent her a sheet of paper covered with them,—and she took it as a capital joke."
"Why not?" said Mayne. "After all, why make a fetish of one letter?"
"Yes, and some people who cling to their aitches, work the poor letter 'I' to death."
"That's rather sharp, and very true too, Miss Nancy."
"I believe I am sharp in seeing some things. Mrs. Hicks is blind as a bat, but immensely good-natured,—and so kind to animals."