The autumn roses bloomed cheerfully in the long border, and the robins were singing loudly on the terrace above. The heavy heads of the dahlias drooped beneath their weight of moisture, in these last days of their existence, before the frost would bring them to a sudden end. Capucines, in every shade of brown and crimson and gold, ran riot over the ground.
Peter drew a pipe from his pocket, put it in his mouth, took out his tobacco-pouch, and filled the pipe with his left hand.
John watched him with interest. "That was dexterously done."
"I'm getting pretty handy," said the hero, with satisfaction, striking a match; "but"—his face fell anew—"no more football; one feels that sort of thing just at the beginning of the season. No more games. It wouldn't tell so much on a fellow like you, Cousin John, who's perfectly happy with a book, and who—"
"Who's too old for games," suggested John.
"Oh, there's always golf," said Peter.
"A refuge for the aged, eh?" said John, and his eyes twinkled. "But
Miss Sarah says you bid fair to beat her at croquet."
"Oh, she was—just rotting," said Peter; and the tone touched John, though he detested slang. "And what's croquet, after all, to a fellow that's used to exercise? I suppose I shall be all right again hunting, when I've got my nerve back a bit. At present it's rotten. A fellow feels so beastly helpless and one-sided. However, that'll wear off, I expect."
"I hope so," said John.
They reached the end of the long walk, and stood for a moment beneath the eastern turret, watching the sparkles on the brown surface of the river below, and the white mist floating away down the valley.