Lunch proved festive. Keble was excited; Miriam played big sister; and Aunt Denise reigned with clemency. Dare was still far below par, and his smile was wan; but he was sufficiently his old self to enter the spirit of the occasion.
Talk turned to politics. “You’ll come to-night, of course?” Keble invited Louise. “Your father has offered to put us up. We leave for Witney to-morrow morning. If you’re too tired to go on you can stay at your father’s till the tumult and the shouting die.”
“What about my patient?”
Dare answered for the patient’s welfare. “In the absence of his hosts, he will install himself at their table, take second helpings of everything, then pray for the speedy advent of the next meal, oblivious to the political destinies of the Dominion.”
“Glad to see your appetite back,” said Keble. “Does a man good to see you so greedy.”
After a stroll with Keble, Dare came back to the sun-parlor, where he found Louise checking items in a mail order. He took up a magazine and lay in the hammock.
“I’m ordering some winter provisions,” she informed him.
“You haven’t let much grass grow under your feet.”
“The grass has become knee-deep since I’ve been away.”
Miriam came to the doorway, but hesitated a moment on hearing this last remark, which alluded to goodness knew what. “We’re to be ready at four,” she said. “Keble wonders if you could put tea ahead a half hour.”