“It was—but something has got to be done with you,” said Mrs. Ainslie firmly. “There’s a farmhouse over there, Mr. Linton: I know the people, and they’ll do anything they can for you. Hurry her over and get her wet things off—Mrs. Hardy will lend her some clothes.” And Norah made a draggled and inglorious exit.
Mrs. Hardy received her with horrified exclamations and offers of all that she had in the house: so that presently Norah found herself drinking cup after cup of very hot tea and eating buttered toast with her father—attired in a plaid blouse of green and red in large checks, and a black velvet skirt that had seen better days; with carpet slippers lending a neat finish to a somewhat striking appearance. Without, farm hands rubbed down Killaloe and Brunette in the stable. Mrs. Hardy fluttered in and out, bringing more and yet more toast, until her guests protested vehemently that exhausted nature forbade them to eat another crumb.
“And wot is toast?” grumbled Mrs. Hardy, “and you ridin’ all day in the cold!” She had been grievously disappointed at her visitors’ refusing bacon and eggs. “The young lady’ll catch ’er death, sure’s fate! Just another cup, miss. Lor, who’s that comin’ in at the gate!”
“That” proved to be Squire Brand, who had appeared at the scene of Norah’s disaster just after her retreat—being accused by Mrs. Ainslie of employing an aeroplane.
“I came to see if I could be of any use,” he said. His eye fell on Norah in Mrs. Hardy’s clothes, and he said, “Dear me!” suddenly, and for a moment lost the thread of his remarks. “You can’t let her ride home, Linton—my car is here, and if your daughter will let me drive her home I’m sure Mr. Hardy will house her pony until to-morrow—you can send a groom over for it. I’ve a spare coat in the car. Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hardy, I should like a cup of tea very much.”
Now that the excitement of the day was over, Norah was beginning to feel tired enough to be glad to escape the long ride home on a jaded horse. So, with Mrs. Hardy’s raiment hidden beneath a gorgeous fur coat, she was presently in the Squire’s car, slipping through the dusk of the lonely country lanes. The Squire liked Jim, and asked questions about him: and to talk of Jim was always the nearest way to Norah’s heart. She had exhausted his present, and was as far back in his past as his triumphs in inter-State cricket, when they turned in at the Homewood avenue.
“I’m afraid I’ve talked an awful lot,” she said, blushing. “You see, Jim and I are tremendous chums. I often think how lucky I was to have a brother like him, as I had only one!”
“Possibly Jim thinks the same about his sister,” said the old man. He looked at her kindly; there was something very child-like in the small face, half-lost in the great fur collar of his coat.
“At all events, Jim has a good champion,” he said.
“Oh, Jim doesn’t need a champion,” Norah answered. “Every one likes him, I think. And of course we think there’s no one like him.”