THE PURSUIT CONTINUES
“Whatever ails you, child? I disapprove! You know I smoke when I feel like it—which isn’t often.”
The subject fortunately was turned when they passed the road to Ben-a-Chielt.
“I always envied Cyril his cliffs. I love the sea and Cyril hates it. ‘So jolly restless,’” she mimicked him. “Makes one ‘quiggledy.’ And there I am—away inland—five miles to the firth at the very nearest. But I suppose,” she sighed, “one has to overlook the deficiencies of one’s grandfather. If he had known I’d have liked the sea, Cyril, of course, would have come into my place.”
With this kind of light chatter, of which Lady Heathcote possessed a fund, their whip drove them upon their way, her own fine spirits oblivious of the silence of her companions. But at last she glanced at them suspiciously. “If I didn’t know that you were both hopelessly in love with other persons, I’d think you were épris of each other.”
Doris laughed.
“We are. That’s why we chose opposite ends of the train.”
But Sandys only smiled.
“Nothing that’s happening makes a chap happy nowadays. I bring bad news.”
Lady Heathcote relaxed the reins so that one of her leaders plunged madly, while her face went white.
“Not Algy”
“No, no—forgive me. He’s safe. I’ve kept watch of the bulletins.”
“Thank God!” said Lady Heathcote, and sent her whiplash swirling over the ears of the erring leader.
“Not Algy—Byfield”
“Byfield—not dead?”
63
