However, Myra was not there; and with a heavy sense of unreasonable disappointment, Jim Airth chucked his ticket to a waiting porter, passed through the little station, and found a smart turn-out, with tandem ponies, waiting outside.
The groom at the leader’s head touched his hat.
“For Shenstone Park, sir?”
“Yes,” said Jim Airth, and climbed in.
The groom touched his hat again. “Her ladyship said, sir, that perhaps you might like to drive the ponies yourself, sir.”
“No, thank you,” said Jim Airth, shortly. “I never drive other people’s ponies.”
The groom’s comprehending grin was immediately suppressed. He touched his hat again; gathered up the reins, mounted the driver’s seat, flicked the leader, and the perfectly matched ponies swung at once into a fast trot.
Jim Airth, a connoisseur in horse-flesh, eyed them with approval. They flew along the narrow Surrey lanes, between masses of wild roses and clematis. The villagers were working in the hayfields, shouting gaily to one another as they tossed the hay. It was a matchless June day, in a perfect English summer.
Jim Airth’s disappointment at Myra’s non-appearance, was lifting rapidly in the enjoyment of the drive. After all it was best to adhere to plans once made; and every step of these jolly little tapping hoofs was bringing him nearer to the Lodge. Perhaps she would be at the window. (He had particularly told her not to be!)
“These ponies have been well handled,” he remarked approvingly to the groom, as they flew round a bend.