Mr. Stocks explained that Mr. Haystoun had organized wonderful picnic parties. The lady clapped her many-ringed hands, and declared that he must repeat the experiment. “For I love picnics,” she said, “I love the simplicity and the fresh air and the rippling streams. And washing up is fun, and it is such a great chance for you young men.” And she cast a coy glance over her shoulder.
“Do you live far off, Mr. Haystoun?” she asked repeatedly. “Four miles? Oh, that’s next door. We shall come and see you some day. We have just been staying with the Marshams—Mr. Marsham, you know, the big cotton people. Very vulgar, but the house is charming. It was so exciting, for the elections were on, and the Hestons, who are the great people in that part of the country, were always calling. Dear Lady Julia is so clever. Did you ever meet Mr. Marsham, by any chance?”
“Not that I remember. I know the Hestons of course. Julia is my cousin.”
The lady was silenced. “But I thought,” she murmured. “I thought—they were—” She broke off with a cough.
“Yes, I spent a good many of my school holidays at Heston.”
Alice broke in with a question about the Manorwaters. The youthful Mr. Thompson, who, apart from his solicitor’s profession, was a devotee of cricket, asked in a lofty way if Mr. Haystoun cared for the game.
“I do rather. I’m not very good, but we raised an eleven this year in the glen which beat Gledsmuir.”
The notion pleased the gentleman. If a second match could be arranged he might play and show his prowess. In all likelihood this solemn and bookish laird, presumably brought up at home, would be a poor enough player.
“I played a lot at school,” he said. “In fact I was in the Eleven for two years and I played in the Authentics match, and once against the Eton Ramblers. A strong lot they were.”
“Let me see. Was that about seven years ago? I seem to remember.”