“A little place somewhere in the country, just large enough to hold a few friends and a dog or two. If possible, some fishing. Then I shall settle down and cultivate my garden and write a dull book about India.”
“You won’t be lonely?”
“Are you?” Fayre shot back at her.
She laughed.
“No, I must admit I’m not, but you must remember that I’ve got a small village on my hands and I’m on all sorts of queer little local committees and things. You don’t propose to become the vicar’s prop and stay, I presume?”
“Not exactly, but I’ve no doubt that some of the philanthropists of the neighbourhood will find a use for me. I’ve never met any one yet who escaped them.”
“Oh, they’ll get you,” agreed Miss Allen cheerfully. “When I took Greycross, more years ago than I like to think of, I mapped out a neat little program for myself. Riding to hounds in winter and gardening and tennis in summer. I saw myself drifting into a healthy, mildly selfish old age, but the local busybodies got me before I’d been there a year. And you’ll be easier to net than I was!”
“I’m not so sure,” asserted Fayre grimly.
“I am. You’re the sort that can’t see a child fall down without crossing the road to pick it up. You won’t have a chance!”
Fayre reddened as he caught the disarming twinkle in her eyes.