“I thought we should have met the Ap-Jenkynses, at lunch,” remarked Temple. “What a droll old party that was with the stick! She puts me in mind of—I say, here’s another old party!” he broke off. “Seems to be a friend of yours.”
It was Mrs. Cann. She had stopped, evidently wanting to speak to me.
“I have just been to put little Nanny Tasson in the train for London, sir,” she said; “I thought you might like to know it. Her eldest brother, the one that’s settled there, has taken to her. His wife wrote a nice letter and sent the fare.”
“All right, Mrs. Cann. I hope they’ll take good care of her. Good-afternoon.”
“Who the wonder is Nanny Tasson?” cried Temple as we went on.
“Only a little friendless child. Her brother was our scout when we first came, and he died.”
“Oh, by Jove, Ludlow! Look there!”
I turned at Temple’s words. A gig was dashing by as large as life; Tod in it, driving Sophie Chalk. Behind it dashed another gig, containing Mr. and Mrs. Ap-Jenkyns. Fred Temple laughed.
“Mrs. Everty’s unmistakably charming,” said he, “and we don’t know any real harm of her, but if I were Ap-Jenkyns I should not let my wife be quite her bosom companion. As to Todhetley, I think he’s a gone calf.”
Whitney came to our room as I got in. He had been invited to the luncheon by Mrs. Everty, but excused himself, and she asked Fred Temple in his place.