“You’ll hunt him, sir, won’t you, this season?” asked Jones anxiously. “The meets ain’t what they was, of course, but there’s a few goes out still. The Master’s a lady—Mrs. Ainslie; her husband’s in France. He’s ’ad the ’ounds these five years.”
“Oh, we’ll hunt, won’t we, Dad?” Norah’s face glowed as she lifted it.
“Rather!” said Jim. “Of course you will. What about the other horses, Jones? Can they jump?”
“To tell you the truth, sir,” said Jones happily, “there’s not one of them that can’t. Even the cobs ain’t too bad; and the black pony that’s at the vet.’s, ’e’s a flyer. ’E’ll be ’ome to-morrow; the vet. sent me word yesterday that ’is shoulder’s all right. Strained it a bit, ’e did. Of course they ain’t made hunters, like Killaloe; but they’re quick and clever, and once you know the country, and the short cuts, and the gaps, you can generally manage to see most of a run.” He sighed ecstatically. “Eh, but it’ll be like old times to get ready again on a hunting morning!”
The gong sounded from the house, and they bade the stables a reluctant good-bye. Lunch waited in the morning-room; there was a pleasant sparkle of silver and glass on a little table in the window. And there was no doubt that Miss de Lisle could cook.
“If her temper were as good as her pastry, I should say we had found a treasure,” said Mr. Linton, looking at the fragments which remained of a superlative apple-pie. “Let’s hope that Mrs. Moroney will discover a kitchenmaid or two, and that they will induce her to overlook our other shortcomings.”
“I’m afraid we’ll never be genteel enough for her,” said Norah, shaking her curly head. “And the other servants will all hate her because she thinks they aren’t fit for her to speak to. If she only knew how much nicer Allenby is!”
“Or Brownie,” said Wally loyally. “Brownie could beat that pie with one hand tied behind her.”
Allenby entered—sympathy on every line of his face.
“The ’ousekeeper—Mrs. Atkins—would like to see you, sir. Or Miss Linton. And so would Miss de Lisle.”