'Was he?' grunted Martin, whose sorrows were tending to make him every day more like a sulky schoolboy. 'I'm afraid I haven't got a poetic soul.'
'I'm afraid you haven't,' said Elsa.
There was a brief silence. A bird made itself heard in a neighbouring tree.
'"The moan of doves in immemorial elms,"' quoted Mr Barstowe, softly.
'Only it happens to be a crow in a beech,' said Martin, as the bird flew out.
Elsa's chin tilted itself in scorn. Martin turned on his heel and walked away.
'It's the wrong way, sir; it's the wrong way,' said a voice. 'I was hobserving you from a window, sir. It's Lady Angelica over again. Hopposition is useless, believe me, sir.'
Martin faced round, flushed and wrathful. The butler went on unmoved: 'Miss Elsa is going for a ride in the car today, sir.'
'I know that.'
'Uncommonly tricky things, these motor-cars. I was saying so to Roberts, the chauffeur, just as soon as I 'eard Miss Elsa was going out with Mr Barstowe. I said, "Roberts, these cars is tricky; break down when you're twenty miles from hanywhere as soon as look at you. Roberts," I said, slipping him a sovereign, "'ow awful it would be if the car should break down twenty miles from hanywhere today!"'