Part 18 (2/2)
”Yes.”
Yvonne's face was now the picture of blue-eyed mischief.
”Well, this chump that was picked up, did you notice what a devilish odd name they've given him?”
”Develin Hunt, isn't it?”
”Yes. Well, now, think of his life spent in being told he had the Develin him.”
A peal of laughter went up from Yvonne--and it was good to hear that child laugh--such a clear, merry, hearty trill.
”I've been waiting for that,” she cried. ”Mr Wagram, you're a perfect G.o.dsend. Father has inflicted it upon every available being up till now. Briggs, the gardener, was gurgling to such an extent that he had to stop digging. He even stopped old Finlay, driving by to Swanton, and fired it off on him.”
”Sunbeam, you are getting insufferably impudent,” said her father. ”I shall really have to cane you.”
With mock gravity she held out a hand that was a very model, with its long, tapering fingers, which closed upon those which descended upon it in a playful little slap.
”He isn't the only sinner in that respect, Sunbeam,” said Wagram. ”I myself was inflicting it upon our crowd at just about the same time.”
”And are not ashamed of yourself? I've a great mind not to show you where I took out a two-pounder the other evening.”
”Did you get it out yourself?”
”That's stale. I sha'n't even answer it. Come.”
She had taken an arm of each, in the way of one who ruled both of them.
But Haldane hung back.
”Take him alone, dear. I must get two confounded letters behind my back, or they'll never get done. I'll come on after you if I'm done in time.”
”All safe. Poogie, I think I won't take _you_,” picking up the beautiful little animal. ”Some obnoxious cur might skoff you.”
”Why not chuck her in the river for a swim?” said Wagram mischievously.
The look Yvonne gave him was beautiful to behold.
”_Now_, I've a great mind not to take _you_,” she said severely. ”Well, come along, then.”
For nearly an hour they wandered by the stream that ran below the garden, talking trout generally, and peering cautiously over into this or that deep hole where big trout were wont to lie. Then, recrossing the plank bridge, with its rather insecure handrail, they started to return.
The field footpath was a right-of-way, and now along it came a somewhat ragged figure, dusty and tired-looking. It was that of a swarthy, middle-aged woman, with beady, black eyes. Instantly Yvonne's interest awoke.
”She can't be English,” she declared. ”Wait, I'll try her.”
She opened in fluent Italian, but met with no response. A change to Spanish and French was equally without result.
”It ain't no good, young lady,” said the tramp; ”I don't understand none of them languages. And yet I ain't exactly English, neither, as you was saying just now.”
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