“Over there, to the right of those three tall trees. Keble calls them Castor and Pollux.”
Half turning towards her companion, as though Girlie’s eyes could not be trusted to find any spot pointed out to her, Mrs. Windrom caught sight of the advancing pair.
“Ha!” she cried, and turned her daughter round by the shoulders. “There you precious two are at last!”
Louise hurried forward, with kisses. Girlie seemed as slow to bring her faculties to a correct focus on Louise as she had been in respect of the trees. She was a lithe, willowy girl with soft, colorless hair, a smile faintly reminiscent of Walter, and limp white fingers that spread across the bosom of a straight, dark-blue garment of incredible spotlessness, considering the dusty motor journey from Witney. “Being less clever than her brother,” Louise was reflecting, “she has tried to get even by taking up outdoor things, which really don’t go with her type.”
“I was so sorry that Walter couldn’t join you in the east,” she said, addressing Mrs. Windrom. “But he has promised us a long visit next year.”
Girlie was getting a clearer focus. “He did nothing but rave about the ranch after he and Mother were here,” she contributed. “Now I see why. It’s like a private Lugano.”
Louise doubted it, but linked her arm in Girlie’s. “The only way we could keep him here, however, was to give him a horse that broke his ribs. I hope you’ll have better luck.”
“Walter never could ride anything but a hobby,—poetry, or first editions. Nor play anything more energetic than croquet. As a partner at golf he’s as helpful as a lame wrist.”
“But a darling for all that,” Louise defended.
“Oh, rather!” exclaimed Girlie, with an emphasis that seemed to add, “That goes without saying,—certainly without your saying it.”