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When Di
“Morning!”
“Di
“Coffee and a kipper, Michael.”
“There are no kippers.”
Lord Saxenden looked up: “No kippers?” he muttered, and resumed his sausage.
“Haddock?” said Michael.
“No, thank you.”
“Anything for you, Aunt Wilmet?”
“Kedgeree.”
“There is no kedgeree. Kidneys, bacon, scrambled eggs, haddock, ham, cold partridge pie.”
Lord Saxenden rose. “Ah! Ham!” and went over to the side table.
“Well, Di
“Just some jam, please, Michael.”
“Goose-gog, strawberry, black currant, marmalade.”
“Gooseberry.”
Lord Saxenden resumed his seat with a plate of ham, and began reading a letter as he ate. She did not quite know what to make of his face, because she could not see his eyes, and his mouth was so full. But she seemed to gather why he had been nicknamed ‘Snubby.’ He was red, had a light moustache and hair, both going grey, and a square seat at table. Suddenly he turned to her and said:
“Excuse my reading this. It’s from my wife. She’s on her back, you know.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Horrible business! Poor thing!”
He put the letter in his pocket, filled his mouth with ham, and looked at Di
“Miss Cherrell,” he said, with a bow, “can I sit right here?”
“Of course: the food is all over there, if you’re thinking of any.”
“Who’s that fellow?” said Lord Saxenden, as Hallorsen went foraging: “He’s an American.”
“Professor Hallorsen.”
“Oh! Ah! Wrote a book on Bolivia? What!”
“Yes.”
“Good-looking chap.”
“A he-man.”
He looked round at her with surprise.
“Try this ham. I used to know an uncle of yours at Harrow, I think.”
“Uncle Hilary!” said Di
“I once laid him three strawberry mashes to two on myself in a race down the Hill steps to the Gym.”
“Did you win, Lord Saxenden?”
“No; and I never paid your uncle.”
“Why not?”
“He sprained his ankle and I put my knee out. He hopped to the Gym door; but I couldn’t move. We were both laid up till the end of term, and then I left.” Lord Saxenden chuckled. “So I still owe him three strawberry mashes.”
“I thought we had ‘some’ breakfast in America, but it’s nil to this,” said Hallorsen, sitting down.
“Do you know Lord Saxenden?”
“Lord Saxenden,” repeated Hallorsen with a bow.
“How de do? You haven’t got our partridge in America, have you?”
“Why, no, I believe not. I am looking forward to hunting that bird. This is mighty fine coffee, Miss Cherrell.”
“Yes,” said Di
Lord Saxenden squared his seat. “Try this ham. I haven’t read your book.”
“Let me send it you; I’ll be proud to have you read it.”
Lord Saxenden ate on.
“Yes, you ought to read it, Lord Saxenden,” said Di
Lord Saxenden glared.
“Charming of you both,” he said. “Is that strawberry jam?” and he reached for it.
“Miss Cherrell,” said Hallorsen, in a low voice, “I’d like to have you go through my book and mark the passages you think are prejudicial to your brother. I wrote that book when I had a pretty sore head.”
“I’m afraid that I don’t see what good that would do now.”
“So I could get them cut out, if you wish, for the second edition.”
“That’s very good of you,” said Di
Hallorsen said, still lower: “I’m just terribly sorry to have hurt you.”
A sensation, perhaps only to be summed up in the words: ‘You are—are you!’ flushed Di
“It’s my brother you’ve hurt.”
“Maybe that could be mended if we could get together about it.”
“I wonder.” And Di
Hallorsen stood up too, and bowed as she passed.
‘Terribly polite,’ she thought.
She spent her morning with the diary in a part of the garden so sunk within yew hedges that it formed a perfect refuge. The sun was warm there, and the humming of the bees over zi
A voice said:
“There you are!”
Her aunt, in a straw hat so broad that it covered her to the very edges of her shoulders, was standing below with two gardeners behind her.
“I’m coming round to you, Di
“Boswell and Johnson, Auntie!”
“We had Boswell, and your uncle would look till we found Johnson. He makes them go about together. Do you believe in Doctor Johnson, Di
“I think he used the word ‘Sir’ too much.”
“Fleur’s got my gardenin’ scissors. What’s that, Di
“Hubert’s diary.”
“Depressin’?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been lookin’ at Professor Hallorsen—he wants takin’ in.”
“Begin with his cheek, Aunt Em.”
“I hope they’ll shoot some hares,” said Lady Mont; “hare soup is such a stand-by. Wilmet and Henrietta Bentworth have agreed to differ already.”
“What about?”
“Well, I couldn’t be bothered, but I think it was about the P.M., or was it Portulaca?—they differ about everything. Hen’s always been about Court, you know.”
“Is that fatal?”
“She’s a nice woman. I’m fond of Hen, but she does cluck. What are you doin’ with that diary?”
“I’m going to show it to Michael and ask his advice.”
“Don’t take it,” said Lady Mont; “he’s a dear boy, but don’t take it; he knows a lot of fu
“That’s why I’m asking him.”
“Ask Fleur, she has a head. Have you got this zi
“Aunt Em!”
“He moons so; and I don’t believe there’s anywhere you could stick a pin into him. Of course I mustn’t say it to you, but I think he ought to have her.”
“So do I, Auntie.”
“Well, he won’t.”
“Or she won’t.”
“They neither of them will; so how it’s to be managed I don’t know. She’s forty.”
“How old is Uncle Adrian?”
“He’s the baby, all but Lionel. I’m fifty-nine,” said Lady Mont decisively. “I know I’m fifty-nine, and your father is sixty; your grandmother must have been in a great tear at that time, she kept on havin’ us. What do YOU think about this question of havin’ children?”
Di
“Well, for married people, perhaps, in moderation.”
“Fleur’s going to have another in March; it’s a bad month—careless! When are you goin’ to get married, Di
“When my young affections are engaged, not before.”
“That’s very prudent. But not an American.”
Di