“Indeed, yes,” said David Linton. “It has some sort of quiet, inoffensive name already, by the way—yes, Homewood.”
“Well, that sounds nice and restful,” said Jim. “Sort of name you’d like to think of in the trenches. When do we go to see it, Dad?”
“The lawyers have written to ask the tenants what day will suit them,” said his father. “They’re an old Indian Army officer and his wife, I believe; General Somers. I don’t suppose they will raise any objection to our seeing the house. By the way, there is another important thing: there’s a motor and some vehicles and horses, and a few cows, that go with the place. O’Neill used to like to have it ready to go to at any time, no matter how unexpectedly. It was only when War work claimed him that he let it to these people. He was unusually well-off for an Irish landowner; it seems that his father made a heap of money on the Stock Exchange.”
“Horses!” said Norah blissfully.
“And a motor.”
“That will be handy for bringing the Tired People from the station,” said she. “Horses that one could ride, I wonder, Daddy?”
“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said her father, laughing. “Anyhow, I daresay you will ride them.”
“I’ll try,” said Norah modestly. “It sounds too good to be true. Can I run the fowls, Daddy? I’d like that job.”
“Yes, you can be poultry-expert,” said Mr. Linton. “As for me, I shall control the pigs.”
“You won’t be allowed to,” said Wally. “You’ll find a cold, proud steward, or bailiff, or head-keeper or something, who would die of apoplexy if either of you did anything so lowering. You may be allowed to ride, Norah, but it won’t be an Australian scurry—you’ll have to be awfully prim and proper, and have a groom trotting behind you. With a top-hat.” He beamed upon her cheerfully.