“Cigarettes, brushes—”
“Nice little bits of jewellery—”
Suggestions poured in thick and fast, and Mrs Percival jotted them down on a little gold and ivory tablet which hung by her side unperturbed by what seemed to Darsie the reckless extravagance of their nature. It was most exciting talking over the arrangements for the hunt; most agreeable and soothing to be constantly referred to in the character of author and praised for cleverness and originality. Darsie entirely forgot the wave of depression which had threatened to upset her composure a few minutes before, forgot for the time being the suspense and danger of the earlier afternoon.
Some one else, it appeared, however, was more remindful, for when she prepared to depart the dog-cart stood at the door, and Ralph announced in his most grand seigneur manner—
“We’re going to drive you back, don’t you know! Too awfully fagging to bicycle on a hot afternoon. Put on your hats, girls, and hurry up.”
The girls obediently flew upstairs, and Darsie’s protestation of “My bicycle!” was silenced with a word.
“The stable-boy shall ride it over to-morrow morning. You’re a bit jumpy still and can’t be allowed to run any risks. I mean to see you safely back in your aunt’s charge.”
Darsie scrambled up to her high seat and leaned back thereon with an agreeable sense of importance.
“I feel like a cat that’s been stroked,” she said to herself, smiling. “When you’re one of a large family you are not used to fussing. It’s most invigorating! I’d like to go in for a long course!”