“‘Where thou goest—‘” she quoted. “Of course I want to come. I’ve never been to Devonshire. And I know Coppertop will adore the pigs and cows—”
“And cream,” put in Coppertop ruminatively.
“Tell me about the place,” said Gillian. “How did you hear of it?”
“Through the prosaic columns of the Daily Post,” replied Magda. “I didn’t want a place recommended by anyone I knew. That doesn’t cut the connecting line one bit. Probably the people who’ve recommended it to you decide to look you up in their car, just when you think you’re safely buried, and disinter you. I don’t want to be disinterred. I propose to get right away into the country, out of reach of everybody we know, for two months. I shan’t give our address to anyone except Melrose, and he can forward on all letters.” A small amused smile crossed her lips. “Then we can answer them or not, exactly as we feel disposed. It will be heavenly.”
“Still I don’t know where this particular paradise is which you’ve selected,” returned Gillian patiently.
“It’s at the back of beyond—a tiny village in Devonshire called Ashencombe. I just managed to find it on the Ordnance map with a magnifying glass! The farm itself is called Stockleigh and is owned and farmed by some people named Storran. The answer to my letter was signed Dan Storran. Hasn’t it a nice sound—Storran of Stockleigh?”
“And did you engage the rooms on those grounds, may I ask? Because the proprietor’s name ‘had a nice sound’?”
Magda regarded her seriously.
“Do you know, I really believe that had a lot to do with it,” she acknowledged.
Gillian went off into a little gale of laughter.