“That” was a sharp rattling, for the second time, on the window-pane.
“Not hail, surely. Oh, you naughty boy,” she continued, throwing open the casement window. “Claud, my dear, you shouldn’t throw stones at the bedroom windows.”
“Only small shot. Morning. How’s Kate? Tell her the breakfast’s waiting.”
“We’re coming, my dear, and your cousin’s ever so much better. Come here, my dear.”
Kate coloured slightly, as she went to the open window, and Claud stood looking up, grinning.
“How are you? Didn’t you hear the shot I pitched up before?”
“Yes, I thought it was hail,” said Kate, coldly.
“Only number six. But come on down; the guv’nor’s been out these two hours, and gone to change his wet boots.”
“We’re coming, my dear,” cried Mrs Wilton; “and Claud, my dear, I’m sure your feet must be wet. Go in and change your boots at once.”
“Bother. They’re all right.”