"Our Dartmoor blades will hunt no more foxes; they'll hunt for smiles from you," said Peter gloomily.
"You shall have some good long gallops with me if you will. I'm mastering the country well, and now with 'Cæsar'—that's my new horse—I shall be able to go twice as far as formerly."
"I rejoice. You must take me upon your favourite rides."
"One has a horrid fascination for me. 'Tis to the top of North Hisworthy Tor above Prince Town. From there you can look straight down into that great War Prison—the saddest sight for any woman's eyes."
Mr. Malherb entered at this moment.
"A tender fool," he said, "and her mother no better. Eight thousand French tigers behind those bars; and these women in their silly way would set 'em loose to-morrow."
"They long for their dens and their cubs, poor fellows," said Grace.
"They fought for their country—that's their only sin," murmured Annabel Malherb.
"They fought against England—that's their sin," retorted her husband hotly. "The lying, slippery rascals! Dartmoor's too good for 'em. Honour! Three broke parole at Ashburton last week!"
"Isn't it wonderful? They play games and hold concerts and have play-acting!" said Grace.