French, German, Jacobite — it was all one to Prudence. But this England was different. She conceived a fondness for it, and found it homelike. Doubtless it was the mother in her, that big, beautiful, smiling creature who had died at Dieppe when Robin was a child.
She remarked on it to Robin next morning, before their departure for London.
Robin laughed at her; he was busy with the painting of his face. “Lord, my dear, you’re the very picture of English solidity,” he said. “Do you ride with the mountain?”
“So I believe,” said Miss Prudence. Her eye fell on John, packing away Master Robin’s razors. “La, child, have you shaved? And you with not a hair to your chin!”
This drew a grim smile from the servant. “You’d best have a care, the pair of you,” he said. “We’re off to put our heads in a noose. The gentleman with the sleepy eyes sees things, I’ll warrant you.”
“What, do you shy away from the mountain?” Robin said. “I might engage to run in circles round it.”
The man looked upon his young master with rough affection. “Ay, you’re a cunning one, Master Robin, but the big gentleman’s awake for all you think him so dull.”
Prudence sat saddle-wise across a chair, and leaned her arms on the back of it. Chin in hand she regarded John, and said lazily: “Where’s the old gentleman, John?”
There was no expression in the stolid face. “I’ve lived with him more years than you, Miss Prue, and I don’t take it upon myself to answer that.”
“How long have you lived with him, John?”