Part 10 (1/2)

said Norah, pirouetting gently. ”Now, shall we go and see the horses?”

They spent a blissful half-hour in the stables, and arranged to ride in the afternoon--the old coachman was plainly delighted at the absence of a chauffeur, and displayed his treasures with a pride to which he had long been a stranger.

”The 'orses 'aven't 'ad enough to do since Sir John used to come,” he said. ”The General didn't care for them--an infantry gent he must have been--and it was always the motor for 'im. We exercised 'em, of course, but it ain't the same to the 'orses, and don't they know it!”

”Of course they do.” Norah caressed Killaloe's lean head.

”You'll hunt him, sir, won't you, this season?” asked Jones anxiously.

”The meets ain't what they was, of course, but there's a few goes out still. The Master's a lady--Mrs. Ainslie; her husband's in France.

He's 'ad the 'ounds these five years.”

”Oh, we'll hunt, won't we, Dad?” Norah's face glowed as she lifted it.

”Rather!” said Jim. ”Of course you will. What about the other horses, Jones? Can they jump?”

”To tell you the truth, sir,” said Jones happily, ”there's not one of them that can't. Even the cobs ain't too bad; and the black pony that's at the vet.'s, 'e's a flyer. 'E'll be 'ome to-morrow; the vet.

sent me word yesterday that 'is shoulder's all right. Strained it a bit, 'e did. Of course they ain't made hunters, like Killaloe; but they're quick and clever, and once you know the country, and the short cuts, and the gaps, you can generally manage to see most of a run.”

He sighed ecstatically. ”Eh, but it'll be like old times to get ready again on a hunting morning!”

The gong sounded from the house, and they bade the stables a reluctant good-bye. Lunch waited in the morning-room; there was a pleasant sparkle of silver and gla.s.s on a little table in the window. And there was no doubt that Miss de Lisle could cook.

”If her temper were as good as her pastry, I should say we had found a treasure,” said Mr. Linton, looking at the fragments which remained of a superlative apple-pie. ”Let's hope that Mrs. Moroney will discover a kitchenmaid or two, and that they will induce her to overlook our other shortcomings.”

”I'm afraid we'll never be genteel enough for her,” said Norah, shaking her curly head. ”And the other servants will all hate her because she thinks they aren't fit for her to speak to. If she only knew how much nicer Allenby is!”

”Or Brownie,” said Wally loyally. ”Brownie could beat that pie with one hand tied behind her.”

Allenby entered--sympathy on every line of his face.

”The 'ousekeeper--Mrs. Atkins--would like to see you, sir. Or Miss Linton. And so would Miss de Lisle.”

But Miss de Lisle was on his heels, breathing threatenings and slaughter.

”There must be some arrangement made as to my instructions,” she boomed. ”Your housekeeper evidently does not understand my position.

She has had the impertinence to address me as 'Cook.' Cook!” She paused for breath, glaring.

”But, good gracious, isn't it your profession?” asked Mr. Linton.

Miss de Lisle fairly choked with wrath. Wally's voice fell like oil on a stormy sea.

”If I could make a pie like that I'd _expect_ to be called 'Cook,'”

said he. ”It's--it's a regular poem of a pie!” Whereat Jim choked in his turn, and endeavoured, with signal lack of success, to turn his emotion into a sneeze.

Miss de Lisle's lowering countenance cleared somewhat. She looked at Wally in a manner that was almost kindly.

”War-time cookery is a makes.h.i.+ft, not an art,” she said. ”Before the war I could have shown you what cooking could be.”