But when they presently went outside the station and climbed into the tall dog-cart, driven by Cousin Frederick, they did not think him very old after all.
He was small and brown and clean-shaven, with a thin, deeply lined face and a curious twist at the corner of his mouth that gave him the appearance of always wearing a rather sardonic smile. But his little grey eyes were inscrutable, and never smiled. No one had ever called him Freddy, or even Fred.
He lifted his cap to Rosamund and Frances and said:
“I’m afraid I can’t get down. The mare won’t stand. Do you mind sitting at the back?”
They climbed up obediently, and from an elevation which both secretly felt to be perilous, watched the arrival of Mrs. Tregaskis and sundry minor articles of luggage.
“Here we are,” she announced gaily to her husband, after the universal but obvious fashion of the newly arrived. “How are you, dear? and how’s Hazel? All well at home? That’s right, thank you, Trewin. You’ll see to the boxes, won’t you. I suppose the luggage cart is here?”
Frederick pointed silently with the whip.
“Oh yes, that’s all right. Well, I’ll pop in, and we can be off.”
She patted the mare vehemently.
“Jenny needs clipping,” she observed in parenthesis. “Well”—she got in beside her husband.