Probably Sir Hermann had received some hint that Helen had hoped for a ventilation of the war-impregnated atmosphere of London, for when she came down to breakfast next morning he let the daily paper, from which he had been reading aloud to Aline, slip on to the floor as he rose to greet her, and did not recover it. He was dressed, in view of to-day’s programme, in a brand new homespun suit of Norfolk jacket, with a leather pad on the shoulder and knickerbockers, and there was a marked air of high elation both about him and Aline. Giggles and slight connubialities took place between them as they assisted each other in giving Helen some kedjeree; Aline put her face on to Hermann’s shoulder, and said how good the homespun smelt, and he kissed her ear and said it smelt of him. This was slightly embarrassing for a third party, and Helen was glad at this moment to welcome the appearance of Mr. Boyton. But the astonishing high spirits of their hosts continued. Sir Hermann, usually rather silent, bubbled with small talk, and they be-dearested each other in every sentence. It could hardly be that the prospect of sport for the one and harvest decorations for the other could account for this sparkle, and, adopting a more probable conjecture, Helen asked if there was good news in the paper.
“Very little from France,” said Sir Hermann, “and on the East front the Russians have suffered a severe defeat.”
Aline beamed over her bacon.
“Yes, poor things,” she said. “It does not look much like a victorious march down the Unter den Linden.”
“No: the steam-roller is skidding a little,” said Sir Hermann. “I hope you slept well, Mr. Boyton? You will not change your mind and pick some partridges for these ladies?”
Aline laughed.
“Listen at his ‘Pick some partridges!’” she said. “And I must go and shoot some flowers for the harvest festival. Will you be back to lunch, dearest? Do come home for lunch. I hate your being away all day.”
“That will not be possible,” said he. “We are going to motor out to the very edge of my property, and at half-two Mr. Tempest and I will be eating a sandwich six miles away.”
“Do not catch cold, dearest. Will you not keep the motor, and then you and Mr. Tempest can lunch comfortably inside it?”
“No, it is not necessary. Yes: here is the paper, Mr. Boyton, though I am afraid you will find nothing very cheerful in it. There is the Times, too, and the Telegraph. I do not like the Russian news at all.”