“But it is always an unfavorable day—in England,” Bertie said. He had been “abroad” before he came to Farafield, and he liked to make this fact known.
“I have never been anywhere but in England,” said Lucy, regretfully.
“Nor I,” said Ray, defiant.
“Nor I,” said some one else, with a touch of scorn.
“Authors always travel about so much, don’t they?” cried an ingénue in a whisper which was full of awe; and this turned the laugh against Bertie. He grew red in spite of himself, and cast a vengeful glance at the young woman in question.
“Ah, you should have seen the day we had at Versailles; such lawns and terraces, such great trees against the bluest, brightest sky. Miss Trevor, do you know I think you should not venture to ride home.”
“Why?” said Ray, with restrained fury, thrusting himself between them.
“I did not suppose it mattered for you, Rushton; but Miss Trevor will get drenched. There, I felt a drop already.”
They all looked anxiously at the gray sky. “I should not like Jock to get wet,” said Lucy. “I do not mind for myself.”
“Come round to this side, you will see the fall better,” Raymond said; and then he added, “come along, come along this short way. Let us give that fellow the slip. It is not the rain he is thinking of, but to spoil my pleasure.”