The cobs tossed their heads again at this, and tried to break into another canter.
“Steady, steady, you larky little scoundrels.—Give them a pull, Kitty. Oh, that’s right; the gate’s open.”
They were in sight of a rustic gateway banked with masses of rhododendrons and other flowering shrubs, and through this Mrs Scarlett deftly guided the phaeton, which seemed suddenly to run more quietly along the pretty curved gravel drive, whose sides were lawn of the most velvety green; while flowers of the brightest hues filled the many beds. The grounds were extensive, though the house was small and cottage-like, with its highly-pitched gables, latticed windows, and red-brick walls covered with magnificent specimens of creeping plants. On either side of the house were pretty extensive conservatories, and glimpses of other glass-houses could be seen beyond a tall thick hedge of yew. In fact, it was just the beau-ideal of a pretty country-home, with a steep slope down to the river.
“Here we are, old fellow,” cried Scarlett, as he leaped out and helped his wife to alight.—“Are they warm, Tom?”
“No, sir; not turned a hair, sir.”
“That’s right.—Now then, Arthur. Same room as you had before. Will you take anything after your ride?”
“Oh, dear, no,” said Prayle; “and if you’ll allow me, I’ll ramble about till dinner.”
“Do just what you like, old man. There are cigars and cigarettes in the study. If there’s anything else you want, just ring.”
“Oh, don’t; pray don’t,” said Prayle deprecatingly. “You will spoil my visit if you make so much of me.”
“Make much of you, lad? Stuff!—Good-bye, Buddy; good-bye, Jen,” he cried, patting the cobs.—“Take care of them, Tom.—Beauties, aren’t they, Arthur? My present to Kate. Now then, come along.”