No one particularly enjoys being assured that they have been forgotten, and Ann’s eyes sparkled with suppressed indignation.
“Can I give my brother any message for you?” she asked stiffly.
All at once he smiled—that sudden, singularly sweet smile of his which transformed the harsh lines of his face and which seemed to have so little in common with his habitual brusqueness.
“I’ve been behaving like a boor, haven’t I?” he admitted. “Forgive me. And can’t we be friends? After all, I’ve some sort of claim. I pulled you out of Lac Léman—or rather, prevented your tumbling into it, you know.”
He spoke with a curious persuasive charm. There was something almost boyishly disarming about his manner. It was as though for a moment a prickly, ungracious husk had dropped away, revealing the real man within. He held out his hand, and as Ann laid hers within it she felt her spirits rising unaccountably.
“I hope you’ll like it here,” he pursued. He glanced round with a discontented expression. “Does the cottage furniture satisfy you? Is it what you like?”
“It’s perfectly charming,” she replied whole-heartedly. “I love old-fashioned things.”
“Well, if there’s anything you’d like altered or want sending down, you must let me know. There are stacks of stuff up at Heronsmere.”
“You’ve already sent down the one thing to complete my happiness,” she answered, smiling. “That jolly little pony.”
“Oh, Dick Turpin. Do you like him?”