“And all about motors, too?” questioned Max eagerly. “Can you really drive one?”
Christopher laughed. “I’ve won a race or two, and I’ve got a certificate. Perhaps it won’t pass in England.”
“Will you teach me to drive? I just long to: but St. Michael says no—though he doesn’t mind Geoffry Leverson teaching me to shoot. He’s home now, you know, and comes over most days, and when Patricia won’t play golf, he takes me shooting.”
“Patricia’s taken to golf then?”
“Yes. Geoffry says she’s splendid, but I expect that’s just to make her play up.”
They had turned off the highroad now and were in the fields following a path on the side of the sloping meadows. The mist that hung over the river did not reach up to them and Christopher could see the thick foliage of the woods opposite, splashed with gold and russet, heavy with moisture. The warm damp smell of autumn was in the air. He took a long breath and squared his shoulders.
“It’s good to be back. To think of its being four whole years.”
“And two since you’ve seen any of us. Are you going away again, Christopher?” 164
“In the spring. There’s St. Michael.”
He was waiting by a stile leading into a wood that gave quicker access to Marden Court, and he came forward to meet them with undisguised pleasure.