"Oh, I am!" answered Gertrude, very heartily and very truthfully. She cast a little triumphant look at Denys. She was certainly enjoying herself immensely. They had been at Whitecliff the larger half of a week already, and Cecil Greyburne, an old school friend of Charlie's, had dropped in to call on Mrs. Henchman the first evening, and since then he had called in or met the girls constantly. Mrs. Henchman had not been very well since their arrival, and Audrey was very engrossed with the end-of-term examinations, and Gertrude found it convenient to assume that Denys ought to be entertaining her future relatives or writing to Charlie; she, therefore, monopolised Cecil to such an extent, that every day it happened as it had happened that morning: Denys sat alone on the beach or wandered about on the cliff, and Gertrude, with a lightly uttered "Oh, Denys is busy somewhere," had gone cycling or rowing or primrose hunting with Cecil.
Mrs. Henchman had ordered her donkey-chair for three o'clock, and shortly before that hour Gertrude came bustling in from the garden.
She found Denys in the hall collecting cushions and shawls, for though the April sun was unusually warm there was a sharp touch in the wind.
"I say, Denys!" she exclaimed. "I have borrowed your machine—I have bent my pedal somehow, and you won't want yours."
CHAPTER V.
A WILD-GOOSE CHASE.
Donkeys are proverbially obstinate animals, and Mrs. Henchman's this afternoon proved no exception to the rule. He had evidently made up his mind that the road to the Landslip was not a congenial one. In vain the boy who drove him cheered him onwards, in vain Denys tugged at his bridle, in vain Audrey walked in front holding out an inviting thistle. At length Mrs. Henchman got flurried and nervous.
"Boy!" she called, "what is your name?"
The boy turned a smiling round face, "Billy Burr, ma'am!"