“You should not water at all.”
Winifred looked at him, laughed, and shook her head.
“I don’t mean to give way to these horrible new theories. To begin with, they would break Thomas’s heart.”
“O, very well,” said Anthony, getting up, affronted. “Did you say you were ready to start? Marion! We are waiting.”
He marched before them in evident displeasure; Winifred, who knew that his discontent would not last long, looking at him with a little amusement. They skirted the field where the haymakers had been at work all day, and the sweet dry grass lay tossed about in fragrant swathes as the forks had dropped it. Across, between the elm-trees, the sun shone upon the canal and the Underham houses, while, beyond again, lay meadows and wooded hills, and the soft western moorland. On the other side of the nearest field was a figure on an old bay cob, with a dog standing by his side, and a man pointing. This was the Squire, too deep in consultation over some boundary annoyances to notice the little party scrambling over their stiles, and waving every now and then to attract his attention.
“Which of you are going to dine at the Bennetts’ to-morrow?”
“Papa, Anthony, and I.”
“And is Marmaduke to be there?”
“I suppose so. It depends on the trains.”
“And Mr Mannering, of course. Marion, did you ever hear that there is a romantic story about those brothers?”