“What on earth——?” said Jim.
“I really don’t know,” said his father. “But I suppose it means you can turn taps without fear of a drought, or they wouldn’t put it. Grounds including shady old-world gardens, walled kitchen garden, stone-flagged terrace, lily pond, excellent pasture. Squash racquet court.”
“What’s that?” asked Norah.
“You play it with pumpkins,” came, muffled, from beneath Jim. “Let me up, Jimmy—I’ll be good.”
“That’ll be something unusual,” said Jim, rising. “Yes, Dad?”
“Stabling, heated garage, thatched cottage. Fine timber. Two of the farms let on long leases; one lease expires with lease of house. All in excellent order. I think that’s about all. So there you are, Norah. And what are you going to do with it?”
It was the next morning, and the treacherous September sunshine had vanished, giving place to a cold, wet drizzle, which blurred the windows of the Lintons’ flat in South Kensington. Looking down, nothing was to be seen but a few mackintoshed pedestrians, splashing dismally along the wet, grey street. Across the road the trees in a little, fenced square were already getting shabby, and a few leaves fluttered idly down. The brief, gay English summer had gone; already the grey heralds of the sky sounded the approach of winter, long and cold and gloomy.
“I’ve been thinking terribly hard,” Norah said. “I don’t think I ever lay awake so long in my life. But I can’t make up my mind. Of course it must be some way of helping the War. But how? We couldn’t make it a hospital, could we?”
“I think not,” said her father. “The hospital idea occurred to me, but I don’t think it would do. You see you’d need nurses and a big staff, and doctors; and already that kind of thing is organized. People well established might do it, but not lone Australians like you and me, Norah.”
“How about a convalescent home?”