“One got through things by saying, ‘I don’t care how they go,’” he said. “And so, Alwyn, it’s been great good luck to have seen you, and you mustn’t stay here if things are not smooth. I shall pull along—so remember you haven’t made any rash promises. Corinne mustn’t think you’re not in a mortal hurry to get back to her.”
“Corinne will understand,” said Alwyn with a smile. “Come, I mustn’t let you over-talk yourself. There’s Wyn on the terrace.”
“I say,” exclaimed Edgar, “he has made a spectacle of his little red phiz. Here, Wyn! Are you ready to take me out again?”
“Yes, sir; oh yes, sir. Are you ready to come?”
“Very soon, I hope. And how are all the creatures? Has the fox been behaving himself?”
“Yes, sir, but one of the little hedgehogs has got away, and the moor-fowl, sir, I’m sorry to say they constantly diminish. Father thinks there’s rats about—or a cat, sir.”
“Whew! That’s a bad look-out. Alwyn, you haven’t seen the Zoological Gardens?”
“Please, sir, should I bring anything up for you and Mr Alwyn to look at?”
“Let’s have the little Scotch terriers. I’m thinking, Wyn, of taking up those beetles that live in decayed wood—in old trees. You’ll have to hunt ’em up for me.”
“Very well, sir, but I don’t know as even Granny would like them about,” said Wyn, as he went after the dogs.