she was.

And this is what he heard.

"Nevil, it's perfectly disgraceful. Letting them run wild like that;
damaging the trees and scaring the birds."

She meant the pheasants of course. No other winged beings were sacred in
her eyes.

"Sorry, old girl. But they appear to survive it." (The cool good-humour
of his father's tone was balm to Roy's heart.) "And frankly, with us, if
it's a case of the children or the birds, the children win, hands down."

Aunt Jane snorted. You could call it nothing else. It was a sound
peculiarly her own, and it implied unutterable things. Roy would have
gloried had he known what a score for his father was that delicately
implied identity with his wife.

But the snort was no admission of defeat.

"In _my_ opinion--if it counts for anything," she persisted, "this
harum-scarum state of things is quite as bad for the children as for the
birds. I suppose you _have_ a glimmering concern for the boy's future,
as heir to the old place?"

Nevil Sinclair chuckled.

"By Jove! That's quite a bright idea. Really, Jane, you've a positive
flair for the obvious."