"Well, why shouldn't she, if they make her look pretty?"
"Oh, she can have all the ribbons she wants, as far as I am concerned. I only hope----"
And then they were aware suddenly of the rapid beat of horses' feet on the firm brown sand below, and turned, supposing it might be Sir George or Margaret Herapath.
But it was a stranger, a tall and imposing figure of a man on a great brown horse, and behind him rode another, evidently a servant, for he carried a valise strapped on to the crupper of his saddle. Both wore long military cloaks and foreign-looking caps. In the half-light of the waning afternoon, and the rarity of strangers in that part of the world, there was something of the sinister about the new-comer, something which evoked a feeling of discomfort in the chatterers and reduced them to silent staring, as the riders went by at a hand-gallop.
"Who can they be?" said Gracie, as they stood gazing after them.
"Foreigners," said Jack decisively. "French, I should say, from the cut of their jibs. A French officer and his servant."
"What are they wanting here, I'd like to know," said Jim, still staring absorbedly. "He's a fine-looking man anyway, and he knows how to ride."
"His eyes were like gimlets," said Gracie. "They went right through me. I thought he was going to speak to us."
"Wish he had," said Jim. "That's just the kind of man I'd like to have a talk with."
They were to drink tea with Gracie, and she had made a great provision of special cakes for them with her own hands. So they turned off into the sand-hills and made their way to Wyvveloe.