Her eyes laughed up at him.
“Fancy you being a fairy, daddy! Why, you’d eat up all the food, and there wouldn’t be room to dance.”
“Come, now, I’m hurt.”
She stroked his face.
“You’re so much better than a fairy, daddy.”
The sun slanted lower, and shadows began to cover the clearing. Canterton smothered the fire, picked up Lynette, and set her on his shoulders, one black leg hanging down on either side of his cerise tie, for Canterton always wore Irish tweeds, and ties that showed some colour.
“Off we go.”
They romped through the larch wood, up the hill-side, and into the garden, Lynette’s two hands clasped over her father’s forehead. Fernhill House showed up against the evening sky, a warm, old, red-brick building with white window frames, roses and creepers covering it, and little dormer windows peeping out of the tiled roof. Stretches of fine turf were unfurled before it, set with beds of violas, and bounded by great herbaceous borders. A cedar of Lebanon grew to the east, a noble sequoia to the west, throwing sharp black shadows on the gold-green grass.
“Gallop, daddy.”
Canterton galloped, and her brilliant hair danced, and her red mouth laughed. They came across the grass to the house in fine uproarious style, and were greeted by the sound of voices drifting through the open windows of the drawing-room.