“No, you don’t,” she said, “and anyway you won’t get the chance to-morrow morning. I shall be off early. It’s a hunting day.”
“Can’t I get a horse somewhere?” said Bertram.
Mrs. MacDermott looked at him in astonishment.
“Your father told me,” she said, “that you couldn’t ride and had never been on a horse in your life.”
“Did he say that? The poor dad! I suppose he was afraid I’d break my neck.”
“If you’re suffering from nervous breakdown——”
“I am. Frightfully. That’s why they sent me here.”
“Then you shouldn’t hunt,” said Mrs. MacDermott. “You should sit quietly in the library and write poetry. That reminds me, the rector is coming to dinner to-night. I thought you’d like to meet him.”
“Why? Is he a sporting old bird?”
“Not in the least; but he’s the only man about this country who knows anything about poetry. That’s why I asked him.”