"Crooked-legged, splay-footed beagles," said Gheena "and Dandys and sheep-dogs. But we could ride after them," she said, brightening up; "they would hunt."
"A Dandy Dinmont," said Stafford absently, "wouldn't hunt far."
Gheena replied icily that she had never mentioned Dandy Dinmonts. Even the Dunkillen people did not hunt over Scotch terriers, and there was no wit in being absurd.
"I—you mentioned Dandies." Stafford's cheeks were a little red. "Shall I drive you on?"
"I can walk," said Gheena coldly. To drive with Basil Stafford would be to tacitly condone his shortcomings.
"Oh, very well. I'm sorry." A sly start sent the grey car throbbing into life; she began to back for the turn home.
Gheena was very tired; she grew white, and the stately hills seemed to gain in size; before her stretched the interminable badly laid-out mountain road.
"And you'd much better drive," said Stafford, humbly again. "It's quite a long way—if you want to see those hounds. It's important."
Gheena got in slowly.
"Or—er—see Dandies," he added as he put in the clutch.