“Well, if you won’t let out your gig on hire, I suppose I shall have to buy it,” said Sir Richard.
“Buy my gig, sir?” gasped the landlord, staggered.
“And the horse too, of course,” added Sir Richard, pulling out his purse.
The landlord blinked at him. “Well, I’m sure, sir! If that’s the way it is, I don’t know but what I could let you drive the gig over yourself—seeing as how you’re a friend of Sir Jasper. Come to think of it, I won’t be needing it for a couple of days. Only you’ll have to rest the old horse afore you send him back, mind!”
Sir Richard raised no objection to this, and after coming to terms with an ease which led to the landlord’s expressing the wish that there were more gentlemen like Sir Richard to be met with, the travellers had only to wait until the cob had been harnessed to the gig, and led round to the front of the inn.
The gig was neither smart nor well-sprung, and the cob’s gait was more sure than swift, but Pen was delighted with the whole equipage. She sat perched up beside Sir Richard, enjoying the hot sunshine, and pointing out to him the manifold superiorities of the Somerset countryside over any other county.
They did not reach Queen Charlton until dusk, since the way to it was circuitous, and often very rough. When they came within sight of the village, Sir Richard said: “Well, brat, what now? Am I to drive you to Sir Jasper Luttrell’s house?”
Pen, who had become rather silent during the last five miles of their drive, said with a little gasp: “I have been thinking that perhaps it would be better if I sent a message in the morning! It is not Piers, you know, but, though I did not think of her at the time, it—it has occurred to me that perhaps Lady Luttrell may not perfectly understand ...”
Her voice died away unhappily. She was revived by Sir Richard’s saying in matter-of-fact tones: “A very good notion. We will drive to an inn.”
“The George was always accounted the best,” offered Pen. “I have never actually been inside it, but my father was used to say its cellars were excellent.”