Thus they were presently ambling down Alfriston’s ancient street, between neat and homely cottages from whose doors heads nodded in cheery greeting, past flowery gardens, by fragrant rickyard, where they had brief vision of Mr. Muddle virtuously busied with a pitchfork despite his limp, and so to the winding, tree-shaded road that led uphill and down towards the purple slopes of Windover.
“Sturton hath kept ye fairly busy o’ late, Bob.”
“His movements, sir, has been constant.”
“Indeed, Bob, since we gave up the harassing tactics for a more subtle method, your days ha’ been fully occupied. Yet I trust you ha’ found time to keep a friendly eye upon our Ancient Dumbrell?”
“I have, sir.”
“Good! And how is——”
“She is very well, your honour, and ... as young as ever!”
“Hum!” quoth Sir John, and they rode awhile in silence. Corporal Robert made to drop behind, but his master stayed him with a gesture.
“Regarding Mrs. Rose, Bob, she often visits the Dumbrells, I think?”