‘It’s just fancy, sir,’ Dering says soothingly. ‘I saw Master Will oiling his bat yesterday.’
‘Did you?’ avidly. ‘I should have liked to see that. I have often oiled their bats for them. Careless lads, they always forget. Was that nice German boy with him?’
‘Mr. Karl? Not far off, sir. He was sitting by the bank of the stream playing on his flute; and Miss Barbara, she had climbed one of my apple-trees,—she says they are your trees.’ He lowers.
‘They are, you know, Dering,’ the Colonel says meekly.
‘Yes, sir, in a sense,’ brushing the spurious argument aside, ‘but I don’t like any of you to meddle with them. And there she sat, pelting the two of them with green apples.’
‘How like her!’ The Colonel shakes his head indulgently. ‘I don’t know how we are to make a demure young lady of her.’
Dering smirks. ‘They say in the village, sir, that Master Will would like to try.’
To the Colonel this is wit of a high order.
‘Ha! ha! he is just a colt himself.’ But the laughter breaks off. He seems to think that he will get the truth if Dering comes closer. ‘Who are all here now, Dering; in the house, I mean? I sometimes forget. They grow old so quickly. They go out at one door in the bloom of youth, and come back by another, tired and grey. Haven’t you noticed it?’
‘No, sir. The only visitors staying here are Miss Barbara and Mr. Karl. There’s just them and yourselves, sir, you and the mistress and Master Will. That’s all.’