“A big watering-place,” groaned Roy. “I told you so. Houses, churches, a parade, and a pier; I can see them all.”
“Where? where?” cried every one, while Mr. Boniface laughed quietly and rubbed his hands.
“Over there, to the left,” said Roy.
“You prophet of evil!” cried Cecil merrily; “we are turning quite away to the right.”
And on they went between the green downs, till they came to a tiny village, far removed from railways, and leaving even that behind them, paused at length before a solitary farm-house, standing a little back from the road, with downs on either side of it, and barely a quarter of a mile from the sea.
“How did you hear of this delightful place, father?” cried Cecil; “it is just perfect.”
“Well, I saw it when you and Roy were in Norway two summers ago,” said Mr. Boniface. “Mother and I drove out here from Southborne, and took such a fancy to this farm that, like Captain Cuttle, we made a note of it, and kept it for a surprise party.”
Mr. Horner, in his suburban villa, was at that very moment lamenting his cousin’s absurd extravagance.
“He was always wanting in common-sense, poor fellow,” observed Mrs. Horner. “But to hire a coach-and-four just to take into the country his own family and that criminal’s children, and those precious Norwegians, who apparently think themselves on a level with the highest in the land—that beats everything! I suppose he’ll be wanting to hire a palace for them next bank holiday!”
As a matter of fact, the farm-house accommodation was rather limited, but no one cared about that. Though the rooms were small, they had a most delicious smell of the country about them, and every one, moreover, was in a humor to be as much out of doors as possible.