“Do you always know what your brother would like?”

“Surely.”

“That must be jolly. But do you really mean you want me?”

“I certainly do.”

“I’d enjoy it awfully; I hate hotels. I mean—well, you know—” But as HE didn’t, he was not so sure that she did.

She touched her horse, and the single-footing animal broke into a canter.

Along the alleys of the eternal pinewood the sun was in their eyes; a warmed scent rose from pine needles, gum and herbs; the going was sandy and soft; the horses in good mood. Jon felt happy. This girl had strange eyes, enticing; and she rode better even than the Blair girls.

“I suppose all the English ride well?” she said.

“Most do, when they ride at all; but we don’t ride much nowadays.”

“I’d love to see England; our folk came from England in 1700—Worcestershire. Where is that?”

“It’s our middle west,” said Jon. “But as unlike as ever you can imagine. It’s a fruit-growing county—very pretty; white timbered houses, pastures, orchards, woods, green hills. I went there walking one holiday with a school friend.”

“It sounds just lovely. Our ancestors were Roman Catholics. They had a place called Naseby; that’s why we call ours Naseby. But my grandmother was French Creole, from Louisiana. Is it true that in England they think Creoles have negro blood in them?”

“We’re very ignorant,” said Jon. “I know the Creoles are the old French and Spanish families. You both look as if you had French blood.”

“Francis does. Do you think we’ve passed that mound? We’ve come all of four miles, and I thought it was only two.”

“Does it matter? The other mound was rather over-rated.”

The lips smiled; she didn’t ever quite laugh, it seemed.

“What Indians hereabouts?” asked Jon.

“I’m not too sure; Seminoles, if any, I think. But Francis says these mounds would be from way back before the present tribes. What made you come to America, Mr. Forsyte?”