carrying on his, and riding better every year.  She kept up her music, she read an awful lot—­novels, poetry, all sorts of stuff.  Out on their farm in Cape colony she had looked after all the “nigger” babies and women in a miraculous manner.  She was, in fact, clever; yet made no fuss about it, and had no “side.”  Though not remarkable for humility, Val had come to have the feeling that she was his superior, and he did not grudge it—­a great tribute.  It might be noted that he never looked at Holly without her knowing of it, but that she looked at him sometimes unawares.

He had kissed her in the porch because he should not be doing so on the platform, though she was going to the station with him, to drive the car back.  Tanned and wrinkled by Colonial weather and the wiles inseparable from horses, and handicapped by the leg which, weakened in the Boer War, had probably saved his life in the War just past, Val was still much as he had been in the days of his courtship; his smile as wide and charming, his eyelashes, if anything, thicker and darker, his eyes screwed up under them, as bright a grey, his freckles rather deeper, his hair a little grizzled at the sides.  He gave the impression of one who has lived actively with horses in a sunny climate.

Twisting the car sharp round at the gate, he said: 

“When is young Jon coming?”

“To-day.”

“Is there anything you want for him?  I could bring it down on Saturday.”

“No; but you might come by the same train as Fleur—­one-forty.”

Val gave the Ford full rein; he still drove like a man in a new country on bad roads, who refuses to compromise, and expects heaven at every hole.

“That’s a young woman who knows her way about,” he said.  “I say, has it struck you?”

“Yes,” said Holly.

“Uncle Soames and your Dad—­bit awkward, isn’t it?”

“She won’t know, and he won’t know, and nothing must be said, of course.  It’s only for five days, Val.”

“Stable secret!  Righto!” If Holly thought it safe, it was.  Glancing slyly round at him, she said:  “Did you notice how beautifully she asked herself?”

“No!”

“Well, she did.  What do you think of her, Val?”

“Pretty and clever; but she might run out at any corner if she got her monkey up, I should say.”

“I’m wondering,” Holly murmured, “whether she is the modern young woman.  One feels at sea coming home into all this.”

“You?  You get the hang of things so quick.”

Holly slid her hand into his coat-pocket.

“You keep one in the know,” said Val encouraged.  “What do you think of that Belgian fellow, Profond?”

“I think he’s rather ‘a good devil.’”

Val grinned.

“He seems to me a queer fish for a friend of our family.  In fact, our family is in pretty queer waters, with Uncle Soames marrying a Frenchwoman, and your Dad marrying Soames’s first.  Our grandfathers would have had fits!”