"They will not be wanted to-day, I fear."
"Pooh, a few flakes o' snow!"
It was precisely at this moment that the toot of a motor horn was heard. A sixty-horse-power six-cylindered affair of the latest design was seen to steal through the shrubbery en route to the front door.
"Why, wasn't that Brasset?"
"His car certainly."
"What does the blighter want?"
"He has brought us the information that Morton has telephoned through to say that there is a foot of snow on the wolds and that hounds had better stay at the kennels."
"Pooh," said Jodey, "he wouldn't have troubled to come himself. You've got a telephone, ain't you?"
"Doubtless he also wishes to confer with Mrs. Arbuthnot upon the state of things in Illyria. He is a very serious fellow with political ambitions."
Further I might have added—which, however, I did not—that the Master of the Crackanthorpe was somewhat assiduous in his attitude of respectful attention towards my seductive co-participator in this vale of tears, who on her side was rather apt to pride herself upon an old-fashioned respect for the peerage. The prospect of a visit from the noble Master caused her to discard the affairs of the Illyrian monarchy in favour of a subject even more pregnant with interest.