“We have had a row, you see!” he explained to the visitor with the gaiety of a schoolboy; “the old woman and I have had a shake-up, and been making it up—she will pound me out hunting. I call it deuced bad form, eh?”
Mrs. Hesketh, a widowed cousin who lived in the only other ‘house’ in the village, carefully removed her heavy sables before she replied.
“I should think, Tom, that you are used to that by this time. Had you had a good day?”
“Ripping!”
“Many out?”
“Oh, the usual lot, and Hugo Blagdon. By Jove! he does have wonderful cattle. I hear he pays as much as five hundred for a hunter. Yes, and he can ride them too,” he added with unusual generosity.
“But what brings him over to this side?” enquired Mrs. Hesketh with languid curiosity.
“He’s only staying at the ‘Black Cock’ at Ridgefield for a week or so—it’s more central than Sharsley. Sharsley is a good bit out of the way for everything; seven miles from a railway station—monstrous, isn’t it in these days?”
“Yes, but we need not boast. Sharsley is a lovely old place; I shouldn’t mind living there myself!”
“No,” he answered with a laugh; “and a heap of other ladies will say ditto to Mrs. Hesketh, eh, Doodie?” appealing to his wife.