recognition came as she turned it over. The flat cardboard container held quality sketching pencils—the kind she always provided for herself, she enjoyed working with good tools, but her indulgence told her they were costly. And there was a box full! She flipped the lid open. Two dozen, of assorted numbers. She ran fingers along the line. Two of each number, and four of the most popular one—the one she had stepped on, and broken.
'He can have them back!' she exclaimed angrily. Willy must have mentioned to him that she had broken her pencil when she stepped on it, and this was his reply—an arrogant presentation of two dozen of the very best leads obtainable. Like tossing pennies to the rabble, she thought angrily. She felt strongly tempted to put them on his dressing table in the next room, then she paused. He might retaliate by simply returning them in the same way. Stalemate. It would be better if she gave them back to him herself, with a dignified refusal, and returned his duster at the same time.
She ironed the check square into neat folds and took it with her, and the box of pencils, into their private sitting room, along with the coffee tray, when dinner was over. Thank goodness Mrs Pugh lived en famille. She was relieved to see the amiable little housekeeper already ensconced on the settee with her knitting.
'A jersey?' Marion asked.
'A cardigan for your uncle,' Mrs Pugh replied, absent-mindedly, one needle busy counting up the number of rows she had already done. 'Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five—there, that's the welt done, it's all plain knitting now up to the armholes. His other's giving at the elbows,' she said by way of explanation, 'your aunt was in no fit state to keep an eye on his clothes, and they're beginning to need looking over.'
'Does he need suits, or anything?' Marion knew how absentminded her uncle could be about such matters. She should have thought of it herself, she realised guiltily.
'Dearie me no, it's only his jerseys, and you can safely leave them with me,' Mrs Pugh smiled. 'It'll be nice for your uncle to have Mr Harland to talk to about his roads and things,' she added complacently.
Nice for her uncle, but Marion had reservations about herself. If they lived in an area where there was somewhere to go, she would have made an excuse to go out, but there was nowhere in Fallbeck to offer a convenient escape route. She resigned herself to the inevitable, and began to pour coffee as her uncle and Reeve came in together, the older man showing an animation she had not seen for a long time.
'You'd be surprised how much clearer it is from the air.' Reeve paused in what he was saying to receive his coffee from Marion with a nod of thanks, and walked over to sit opposite to her uncle across the fireplace. There was a small fire smouldering in the grate, just enough to combat the chill caused by the earlier rain. Marion watched him go with an odd sense of pique. She had come downstairs ready to do battle over the box of pencils, and he seemed hardly to notice she was there. He stretched out in his chair and carried on talking to her uncle. She tried not to listen, but his voice seemed to command her attention, although he was not talking to her.
'Configurations show up much more clearly from above, lines and ridges, and the overall shape of things that may not be obvious when viewed from eye level, become a coherent pattern if they're looked at from the air. There's the line of an old road or track of some sort crossing the hills here, I noticed it while we were travelling above them the other day.'
There's an old drovers' road hereabouts,' Miles Dorman answered him eagerly. 'It's never been possible to trace the entire route of it. Bits of it are known, but they peter out, and the rest has had to be guessed at by piercing together knowledge and assumption.'
'You must come up with Willy and me in the 'copter one day and have a look for yourself,' Reeve urged him. 'The evidence of
'He can have them back!' she exclaimed angrily. Willy must have mentioned to him that she had broken her pencil when she stepped on it, and this was his reply—an arrogant presentation of two dozen of the very best leads obtainable. Like tossing pennies to the rabble, she thought angrily. She felt strongly tempted to put them on his dressing table in the next room, then she paused. He might retaliate by simply returning them in the same way. Stalemate. It would be better if she gave them back to him herself, with a dignified refusal, and returned his duster at the same time.
She ironed the check square into neat folds and took it with her, and the box of pencils, into their private sitting room, along with the coffee tray, when dinner was over. Thank goodness Mrs Pugh lived en famille. She was relieved to see the amiable little housekeeper already ensconced on the settee with her knitting.
'A jersey?' Marion asked.
'A cardigan for your uncle,' Mrs Pugh replied, absent-mindedly, one needle busy counting up the number of rows she had already done. 'Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five—there, that's the welt done, it's all plain knitting now up to the armholes. His other's giving at the elbows,' she said by way of explanation, 'your aunt was in no fit state to keep an eye on his clothes, and they're beginning to need looking over.'
'Does he need suits, or anything?' Marion knew how absentminded her uncle could be about such matters. She should have thought of it herself, she realised guiltily.
'Dearie me no, it's only his jerseys, and you can safely leave them with me,' Mrs Pugh smiled. 'It'll be nice for your uncle to have Mr Harland to talk to about his roads and things,' she added complacently.
Nice for her uncle, but Marion had reservations about herself. If they lived in an area where there was somewhere to go, she would have made an excuse to go out, but there was nowhere in Fallbeck to offer a convenient escape route. She resigned herself to the inevitable, and began to pour coffee as her uncle and Reeve came in together, the older man showing an animation she had not seen for a long time.
'You'd be surprised how much clearer it is from the air.' Reeve paused in what he was saying to receive his coffee from Marion with a nod of thanks, and walked over to sit opposite to her uncle across the fireplace. There was a small fire smouldering in the grate, just enough to combat the chill caused by the earlier rain. Marion watched him go with an odd sense of pique. She had come downstairs ready to do battle over the box of pencils, and he seemed hardly to notice she was there. He stretched out in his chair and carried on talking to her uncle. She tried not to listen, but his voice seemed to command her attention, although he was not talking to her.
'Configurations show up much more clearly from above, lines and ridges, and the overall shape of things that may not be obvious when viewed from eye level, become a coherent pattern if they're looked at from the air. There's the line of an old road or track of some sort crossing the hills here, I noticed it while we were travelling above them the other day.'
There's an old drovers' road hereabouts,' Miles Dorman answered him eagerly. 'It's never been possible to trace the entire route of it. Bits of it are known, but they peter out, and the rest has had to be guessed at by piercing together knowledge and assumption.'
'You must come up with Willy and me in the 'copter one day and have a look for yourself,' Reeve urged him. 'The evidence of
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