Alan had made arrangements with Sir Christopher Somerville to accompany the expedition to Kalvar. Desmond was to stay behind and look after Mavis, who intended staying at Dalmyrnie until her baby was born. Her fingers were busy fashioning tiny garments for the little newcomer, whose arrival was expected very soon.
“What shall we do to-day?” asked Sir John. “Mavis, my dear, would you like to rest? You look very tired.”
“No, nothing does me as much good as a sail in the Argenta, Uncle John. Let us go up after lunch for a couple of hours.” There was a curious stillness in the air, as the Argenta climbed up to six thousand feet,—hardly a breeze, in fact.
“Oh I’m stifling,” said Mavis.
“My poor darling,” murmured Desmond lovingly. “Are you sure you are not overtiring yourself? Your fingers never seem still. Always working at something or other, aren’t you?”
She blushed prettily. “I can’t let—him—come into the world and find we’ve not prepared for him, can I?” and she hid her face on her husband’s shoulder.
“You’ve made up your mind it’s to be a—‘him’—?” he laughed.
“Of course, Dez. I must have a son first.” He laughed at her naïve remark.
“Well if you feel tired be sure and tell me, darling, that’s all.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised if we had a storm later,” remarked Masters. “Although the sky is clear, there is the curious oppressiveness that usually precedes a storm.”