Robin gathered up the reins and they set off, the sleek little cob at once breaking into a sharp trot which carried them swiftly along the leafy country road.
“Coventry’s not very young,” observed Robin, as they sped along. “Must be six or seven and thirty, at least. And I don’t think you would describe him as ‘nice’ if you’d met him. He’s very brusque in his manner at times, and I don’t fancy women figure much in his scheme of existence.”
“Oh, well, he’s of no importance beyond being the source of a perfectly topping billet for you.” Ann brushed the owner of Heronsmere off the map with an airy wave of her hand. “He’s quite at liberty to enjoy his womanless Eden as far as I’m concerned. Men—other than extremely nice brothers, of course!—are really far more bother than they’re worth. They’re—they’re so unexpected”—with a swift recollection of the upsetting vagaries of mood exhibited by a certain member of the sex.
Robin threw her a brief glance, then, drawing his whip lightly across the cob’s glossy flanks, he asked casually:
“And how did you leave the Brabazons?”
“They’re both looking very fit after three months in Switzerland, of course, but I think Tony found it a bit boring compared with Monte Carlo. They came straight on to Montricheux from Mentone, you know.”
“Tony still gambles as much as ever, then?”
Ann’s face clouded.
“I’m afraid he does,” she acknowledged. “At least, whenever he gets the chance.”
“Well, he won’t get much chance down at Lorne,” remarked Robin philosophically.