"That's Trenby Hall," he said. And Nan was conscious of an impishly amused feeling that just so might Noah, when the Flood began, have announced: "That's my Ark.'"
"You've never been over yet," continued Roger. "But I want you to come one day. I should like you to meet my mother."
A queer little dart of fear shot through her as he spoke.
She felt as though she were being gradually hemmed in.
"It looks a beautiful place," she answered conventionally, though inwardly thinking how she would loathe to live in a solid, square mansion of that type, prosaically dull and shut away from the world by enclosing woods.
Roger looked pleased.
"Yes, it's a fine old place," he said. "Now for the kennels."
Nan breathed a sigh of relief. She had had one instant of anxiety lest he should suggest that, instead of lunching, as arranged, from the picnic basket safely bestowed in the back of the car, they should lunch at the Hall.
Another fifteen minutes brought them to the kennels, Denman, the first whip, meeting them at the gates. He touched his hat and threw a keen glance at Nan. The Master of the Trevithick was not in the habit of bringing ladies to see the kennels, and the whip and his wife had discussed the matter very fully over their supper the previous evening, trying to guess what it might portend. "A new mistress up at the 'All, I shouldn't wonder," asserted Mrs. Denman confidently.
"Hounds all fit, Denman?" asked Trenby in quick, authoritative tones.