“It’s all right just for paddling about,” answered Nick. “But there’s really jolly boating on our river. That’s over on the west side of the park”—he pointed in the direction indicated. “It divides Staple from Willow Ferry—the property of our next-door neighbour, so to speak. You’d like the boating here,” he added, “though I’m afraid our skating possibilities aren’t likely to impress anyone coming straight from Switzerland.”
“I’m sure I shall like skating—or anything else—here,” said Jean Warmly. “It is all so beautiful. I suppose Devonshire is really quite the loveliest county in England? My father always declared it was.”
“We think so,” replied Nick modestly. “Though a Cornishman would probably want to knock me down for saying so! But I love it.” he went on. “There’s nowhere else I would care to live.” His eyes softened, seeming almost to caress the surrounding fields and woods.
Jean nodded. “I can understand that,” she said. “Although I’ve only been here a few hours, I’m beginning to love it, too. I don’t know why it is—I can’t explain it—but I feel as if I’d come home.”
“So you have. The Petersons lived here for generations.”
“Do you mean”—Jean stared at him in astonishment—“do you mean that they lived at Coombe Eavie?”
“Yes. Didn’t you know? They used to own Charnwood—a place about a mile from here. It was sold after your grandfather’s death. Did your father never tell you?”
She shook her head.
“He always avoided speaking of anything in connection with his life over here. I think he hated England. Is there anyone living at Charnwood now?” she asked, after a pause.
“Yes. It has changed hands several times, and now a friend of ours lives there—Lady Latimer.”