Courtier, what Ann thinks of you. You think a good
deal of Uncle Eustace, don't you, Ann?"
"Yes," said Ann, and fixed her eyes before her. But Courtier gazed
sideways--over her hatless head.
His exhilaration was increasing every moment. This girl reminded him of
a two-year-old filly he had once seen, stepping out of Ascot paddock for
her first race, with the sun glistening on her satin chestnut skin, her
neck held high, her eyes all fire--as sure to win, as that grass
was green. It was difficult to believe her Miltoun's sister. It was
difficult to believe any of those four young Caradocs related. The grave
ascetic Miltoun, wrapped in the garment of his spirit; mild, domestic,
strait-laced Agatha; Bertie, muffled, shrewd, and steely; and this
frank, joyful conquering Barbara--the range was wide.
But the car had left the moor, and, down a steep hill, was passing
the small villas and little grey workmen's houses outside the town of
Bucklandbury.
"Ann and I have to go on to Miltoun's headquarters. Shall I drop you at
the enemy's, Mr. Courtier? Stop, please, Frith."
And before Courtier could assent, they had pulled up at a house on which
was inscribed with extraordinary vigour: "Chilcox for Bucklandbury."
Hobbling into the Committee-room of Mr. Humphrey Chilcox, which smelled
of paint, Courtier took with him the scented memory of youth, and
ambergris, and Harris tweed.
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