“But is it safe?” asked Mr Boxall, who had also descended from the waggonette. “Think, my dear Miss Lestrange, if there was another accident! Would it not be safer for _me_ to drive you if you are determined to go in this vehicle? The children could find accommodation in the waggonette.”
“No, thanks,” said Miss Lestrange; “it is just the children I want to talk to.”
“Come on, Boxall,” cried the General; “we can’t stick here all day. Let her do what she likes—always will have her own way. Drive on.”
The waggonette and its contents drove on, and Miss Lestrange got into the “tub.”
Just as they were starting a big closed carriage drove by following in the direction of the waggonette. It contained Lady Molyneux, her maid, her pug dogs, and her jewel-case.
“We’ve been to the meet of the hounds,” explained Lord Gawdor. “That was Bob Mahony, the sweep, we were racing. He beat us, but he wouldn’t have beat us if he’d driven fair. I say, who was that gentleman with the big white face who wanted to drive you?”
“That was Mr Boxall,” said Miss Lestrange.
“He seemed awfully sweet on you,” said Lord Gawdor. “What’s the matter with his eyes?”
“I don’t know,” replied Miss Lestrange, blushing, “He’s—a Member of Parliament.”
“Oh, _I_ remember,” said Lord Gawdor. “I heard granny telling Mrs O’Farrell that poor Mr Boxall was coming on a visit, and that he’d got a glass eye. Miss Lestrange!”
“_I_ don’t know,” replied Miss Lestrange. “Let us talk of something else. Doris, how is your grandmother?”
“She’s all right,” said Doris. “Just the same. Bob kicked his football through the window the other day, and she kept us prisoners in the schoolroom two days, and we wouldn’t have been let go to the meet this morning only for Mr Fanshawe.”
“Who is Mr Fanshawe?” asked Miss Lestrange, with a sudden interest in her voice.
“Jolliest chap you ever met,” cut in Lord Gawdor; “isn’t he, Doris?”
“And he gave Patsy half a crown,” went on Lord Gawdor—“this is Patsy driving—He’s off hunting this morning. My! can’t he ride? And hasn’t he some fine horses?”
“He’s a rale gintleman,” said Patsy. “Beg your pardon, miss, for speakin’.”
“Not at all,” said Miss Lestrange, smiling sweetly on Patsy. On getting into the “tub” she had looked tired from her journey and bored, but she was now full of spirits and animation. “So your name is Patsy, is it?”