“And no Aunt Anne to guide them,” interpolated the visitor.
“Thank you, my dear. It’s very nice of you to say so. I’m afraid I’m not clever, but I do try to act a mother’s part to dear Isabel. I don’t know, though, what I shall do when Neil and Alison marry those two. They don’t like me a bit, and, between ourselves, I really don’t like them.”
“Morning, daddy,” came in a loud, breathless voice from the outside. “What do you think of that?”
“Morning,” came in another voice; and the word was repeated again in the deep tones of a man, and supplemented by the snortings of horses.
“Morning, my dears. Capital! But very imprudent. I will not have you trying to break that pretty little neck—nor you neither, Dana. Burwood, you should not have encouraged them.”
“I? That’s good, Mr Elthorne. They both took the bit in their teeth, and all I could do was to follow.”
“Oh, stuff and nonsense!” cried the second voice. “What a fuss about a canter. Come, you folks, are you ready?”
“How’s Aunt Anne?”
“Good gracious me! Is the girl mad?” cried that lady, as there was the crunching of gravel, the window was darkened, a horse’s hoofs sounded loudly on the step, and the head and neck of a beautiful animal were thrust right into the room, with the bright, merry face of a girl close behind, as its owner stooped to avoid the top of the window and peered in.
“Hallo! There you are. Good-morning! We’ve had such a gallop. Where’s Isabel? Hallo, sailor, how are you?”