"Oh, yes, now we've got Diogenes as a start," she answered.
"Very well, then," said Aunt May, "if you'd like one of these, you shall have it directly it's old enough to be sent away—as a memory of to-day, and as a thankofferin', too. Which would you like," she added, "Psyche, Cicero, or Circe? This is Cicero, this is Circe, and this is Psyche."
"Why do all their names begin with 'S'?" Gregory asked; and it was not till he told Janet about it that he understood why it was that everyone had laughed so.
"And if you may keep two," Aunt May went on, speaking to Gregory, "I shall send you one of the next litter. Vesta is going to have puppies soon. You must write and let me know. And now, if your man has finished, I expect you'd like to be gettin' on, or the others will be nervous about you."
And so, after Hester had chosen Circe, they all said very affectionate farewells, and the Slowcoach rumbled forth again.
Meanwhile, what of Janet and Robert and Mary and Jack and Horace? They had had no adventures at all—nothing but scenery and a pleasant picnic.
Robert had been rightly told about the summit of Bredon Hill, for there the grass is as short as on the South Downs, and there is a deep fosse in which to shelter from the wind.
The hill at this western point ends suddenly, at a kind of precipice, and you look right over the valley of the Avon and the Severn to the Malverns. Just below on the south-west is Tewkesbury, where the Severn and the Avon meet, after that becoming the Severn only all the way to Bristol and the sea. In the far south-west rises the point of the Sugar Loaf at Abergavenny, and the blue distance is Wales—the country of King Arthur and Malory.
To the north-west is the smoke of Worcester, and immediately beneath the hill, winding shiningly about, is the Avon, running by Bredon village and the Combertons and Pershore, past Cropthorne (where Mr. MacAngus was perhaps even now painting) and Wood Norton (where the Duke of Orleans, who ought, Hester held, to be King of France to-day, lives) to Evesham, and the weir where they had rowed about, and so on to Stratford.
Robert's maps, fortified by what he had picked up from the old man last night, told them all these things, and told them also, more or less, what the "coloured counties" were that they could see; for of course Mary wanted to know that: Warwickshire, Gloucestershire, Oxfordshire, Worcestershire, Herefordshire, Monmouthshire. After lunch Mary sang the beautiful Bredon Hill song to them; and so they descended to the level ground and to Kink and Hester and Gregory, little expecting to find them with such exciting things to tell.