“Yes,” agreed Raymond. He could see no way, short of walking off, of escaping from her, and added: “Can I give you a lift home?”
She turned pinker than ever with pleasure, and stammered: “Well, that is kind of you, dear! Of course you have your car here, haven’t you? I was just going into the corn-chandler’s to buy some seed for my birdies, and then I thought I would catch the bus, but if you wouldn’t mind waiting for me, I’m sure it would be most kind of you. Though I oughtn’t to be keeping you, I know, for I’m sure you’re very busy.”
“The car’s over there,” interrupted Raymond, indicating its position with a jerk of his head. “I’ll wait for you.”
“I won’t be a minute!” she promised. “I’ll just pop across the road for my seed, and be back in a trice. You remember my birdies, don’t you? Such sweets!”
As it was only three weeks since Raymond had visited the grey house outside the town where Delia lived with her brother, upon which occasion it had seemed to him that as much of the drawing-room as was not filled with glass-fronted cabinets containing Phineas’s collection of china was occupied by love-birds and canaries in gilt cages, all making the most infernal din, he had a very vivid recollection of the birdies, and said so, somewhat grimly.
It was fully a quarter of an hour later when Miss Ottery climbed into the runabout beside her nephew, and disposed her shopping-basket in the cramped space at her feet. She explained her dilatoriness as having been due to her desire to get the corn-chandler’s advice about Dicky, one of her roller-canaries, who had been ailing for several days. “Such a nice man!” she said. “He always takes such an interest! Of course, we have dealt there all our lives, which I always think makes a difference, don’t you? Only you’re more interested in horses than in birds, aren’t you, dear? Naturally, you would be. It would be very strange if you weren’t, considering. And how are the dear horses?”
He did not feel that it was necessary to answer this question. He told her instead that he had one or two promising youngsters turned out to grass.
“Oh, how nice!” she exclaimed. “I was always so sorry when we gave up our stables, not but what I was never such a wonderful horsewoman as dear Rachel, only I have always loved horses, as long as they aren’t too skittish for me. Rachel used to ride anything — such a picture as she was, too! — but my dear father — your grandfather, Raymond, only you can’t remember him, because he died before you were born — used to mount me on such gentle, well-mannered horses that I quite enjoyed it. But I never hunted. I never could quite bring myself to approve of it, not that I mean anything against people who do hunt, because I’m sure it would be a very dull world if we all thought alike. But I used to drive a dear little governess-cart. You remember my fat pony, Peter, don’t you Raymond?”
Yes, Raymond remembered the fat pony perfectly, a circumstance which made Miss Ottery beam with delight, and recall the various occasions when the fat pony had been so naughty, or so clever, or so sweet.
Branching away somewhat erratically from this fruitful subject, she said wistfully that she wished she could see Raymond’s darling colts, because she loved all young animals, even kittens, though when you considered what they would grow into, and the perfectly dreadful way they played with poor little birds, and mice, it seemed quite terrible.