“What is it, Rose?”
She was looking gaily mysterious, and almost cunning, but in a delightful way.
“I don’t want you to be bored during your holiday.”
“Bored! Don’t you realize that this is an earthly Paradise for me? You and Robin and peace after South Africa.”
She looked very shrewd.
“That’s all very well, but a man, especially a soldier man, wants sport.”
She laid a strong and happy emphasis on the last word, and then she disclosed the secret. A brother of “the cold douche,” a gentleman farmer who had land some four miles from Welsley, and who was “a great friend” of Rosamund’s—she had met him three times at the organist’s house—hearing of Dion’s arrival, had written to say that he had some partridges which needed “keeping down.” He himself was “laid by” with a bad leg, but he would be very glad if Mr. Leith would “take his chance among the birds” any day, or days, he liked while at Welsley. The gentleman farmer could not offer much, just the ground, most of it stubble, and a decent lot of birds.
“Dear Mrs. Dickinson knew through me how fond of shooting you are. We owe it all to her,” said Rosamund, in conclusion. “I’ve written to thank him, and to say how glad you’ll be.”
“But you must come too,” he said. “You shot in Greece, you must shoot again here.”
“I don’t think I will here,” said Rosamund, confidentially and rather mysteriously.