“Coming, Phil—half a minute!”
Hardress, in riding kit, looked into the kitchen, where Norah was carrying on a feverish consultation with Miss de Lisle.
“You’ll be late,” he said warningly. “Your father and Geoffrey have gone on.”
“Will I truly?” said Norah distractedly. “Yes, Miss de Lisle, I’ll write to the Stores about it to-night. Now, what about the fish?”
“Leave the fish to me,” said Miss de Lisle, laughing. “If I can’t manage to worry out a fish course without you, I don’t deserve to have half my diplomas. Run away: the house won’t go to pieces in a single hunting day.”
“Bless you!” said Norah thankfully, dragging on her gloves and casting a wild glance about the kitchen for her hunting crop. “Oh, there it is. Good-bye. You won’t forget that Major Arkwright is only allowed white meat?”
“Oh, run away—I won’t forget anything.”
“Well, he only came last night, so I thought you mightn’t know,” said the apologetic mistress of the house. “All right, Phil—I’m truly coming. Good-bye, Miss de Lisle!” The words floated back as she raced off to the front door, where the horses were fretting impatiently, held by the groom.
They jogged down the avenue—Hardress on one of the brown cobs, Norah on Brunette, the black pony—her favourite mount. It was a perfect hunting morning: mild and still, with almost a hint of spring warmth in the air. The leafless trees bore faint signs of swelling leaf-buds. Here and there, in the grass beside the drive crocus bells peeped out at them—purple, white and gold.
“We’ll have daffodils soon, I do believe,” Norah said. “Well, I love Australia, but there isn’t anything in the world lovelier than your English spring!”