“Oh!” he sighed. “After all, it’s good to be back again in England. A spell at home will do Lucie good. She’s growing far too foreign in her ways and ideas. For a long time she’s wanted to spend a year or so in England, and now I’m going to indulge her.”
“Then you won’t be returning abroad for some time?”
“Not for a year, I think. This winter I shall do a little hunting up in the Midlands, I know a nice hunting-box to let at Market Harborough. Years ago I used to love a run with the hounds, and even now the sight of the pink always sends a thrill through me.”
“Does Lucie ride?”
“Ride, of course. She’s ridden to hounds lots of times. She had her first pony when she was eight.”
“Then she’ll enjoy it. There’s very good society about Market Harborough, I’ve heard.”
“Oh! yes. I know the hunting lot there quite well, and a merry crowd they are. The Continent’s all very well for many things, but for real good sport of any kind you must come to England. In the Forest of Fontainebleau they hunt with an ambulance waggon in the rear!” he laughed.
And in the same strain he chattered until just after dawn we ran into Charing Cross, where we parted, he and Lucie going to the Buckingham Palace Hotel, while I took a cab out to Granville Gardens, Shepherd’s Bush.
When I walked into Sammy’s room at seven o’clock he sat up in bed and stared at me.
“Why? What on earth has brought you back so soon, old chap? I thought you were going to be away all the autumn and winter!” he exclaimed.