Major Tristram came to her and gave her his big hand.
"I'm back for only a few hours," he explained, "and then my victims have me again. But it's good to catch a glimpse of anything so fresh as yourself. Isn't the sun ever going to wither you like other mortals?"
The smile dawned shyly about the corners of her lips.
"I don't know. I keep out of it as much as possible. I don't like it. I only came out this afternoon because——" She hesitated and then added rather breathlessly: "I knew Mrs. Compton was here—and I'm anxious about mother."
Mary Compton laid an impulsive brown hand on the white one which held the reins in its frail, ineffectual fingers.
"Well, here we all are, anyhow," she said, "and just dying to be useful. What's the trouble, dear?"
"Mother is ill," Anne Boucicault answered, with the same curious hesitancy. "I was frightened. Major Tristram, if only you could come——"
He did not wait for her to finish her appeal. He scrambled up on to the seat beside her, and took the reins from her hands.
"You look after Arabella and Wickie, Compton," he said, "and hand me up my helmet. No—not like that—for goodness' sake, be careful, man! Thanks, that's better."
"And I hope you're going to wear it," Mrs. Compton remarked, with asperity. "I suppose you don't want to arrive with a sunstroke or give Mrs. Boucicault a fit with that awful handkerchief?"