“What are they?”

“Oh! fearfully careful; not sportsmen a bit.  Look at Uncle Soames!”

“I’d like to,” said Holly.

Val resisted a desire to run his arm through hers.  “Oh! no,” he said, “let’s go out.  You’ll see him quite soon enough.  What’s your brother like?”

Holly led the way on to the terrace and down to the lawn without answering.  How describe Jolly, who, ever since she remembered anything, had been her lord, master, and ideal?

“Does he sit on you?” said Val shrewdly.  “I shall be knowing him at Oxford.  Have you got any horses?”

Holly nodded.  “Would you like to see the stables?”

“Rather!”

They passed under the oak tree, through a thin shrubbery, into the stable-yard.  There under a clock-tower lay a fluffy brown-and-white dog, so old that he did not get up, but faintly waved the tail curled over his back.

“That’s Balthasar,” said Holly; “he’s so old—­awfully old, nearly as old as I am.  Poor old boy!  He’s devoted to Dad.”

“Balthasar!  That’s a rum name.  He isn’t purebred you know.”

“No! but he’s a darling,” and she bent down to stroke the dog.  Gentle and supple, with dark covered head and slim browned neck and hands, she seemed to Val strange and sweet, like a thing slipped between him and all previous knowledge.

“When grandfather died,” she said, “he wouldn’t eat for two days.  He saw him die, you know.”

“Was that old Uncle Jolyon?  Mother always says he was a topper.”

“He was,” said Holly simply, and opened the stable door.

In a loose-box stood a silver roan of about fifteen hands, with a long black tail and mane.  “This is mine—­Fairy.”

“Ah!” said Val, “she’s a jolly palfrey.  But you ought to bang her tail.  She’d look much smarter.”  Then catching her wondering look, he thought suddenly:  ‘I don’t know—­anything she likes!’ And he took a long sniff of the stable air.  “Horses are ripping, aren’t they?  My Dad...” he stopped.

“Yes?” said Holly.

An impulse to unbosom himself almost overcame him—­but not quite.  “Oh!  I don’t know he’s often gone a mucker over them.  I’m jolly keen on them too—­riding and hunting.  I like racing awfully, as well; I should like to be a gentleman rider.”  And oblivious of the fact that he had but one more day in town, with two engagements, he plumped out: 

“I say, if I hire a gee to-morrow, will you come a ride in Richmond Park?”

Holly clasped her hands.

“Oh yes!  I simply love riding.  But there’s Jolly’s horse; why don’t you ride him?  Here he is.  We could go after tea.”

Val looked doubtfully at his trousered legs.

He had imagined them immaculate before her eyes in high brown boots and Bedford cords.

“I don’t much like riding his horse,” he said.  “He mightn’t like it.  Besides, Uncle Soames wants to get back, I expect.  Not that I believe in buckling under to him, you know.  You haven’t got an uncle, have you?  This is rather a good beast,” he added, scrutinising Jolly’s horse, a dark brown, which was showing the whites of its eyes.  “You haven’t got any hunting here, I suppose?”