A Rolling Stone by B. M. Croker

The white flowers had been gathered on Saturday in the Manor garden, and it was now Monday. Miss Parrett had adventured a drive to Westmere, returning home by four o'clock, and the car being washed and put away betimes, the chauffeur found himself at liberty. The glowing and golden September evening was enticing, and, whistling for Joss, he set out for a good long stretch before supper. On this occasion, man and dog deserted the low country and the water-meadows, and climbed the hills which sheltered the village. Their road lay by a grassy cart-track, which ran sometimes between high hedges, sometimes along a headland, with here and there a hoary old gate -- it was chiefly used in harvest-time (indeed, wisps of fresh hay and straw were still clinging to the bushes), and was the short-cut to Shrapton-le-Steeple, a hamlet which lay eight miles south of Ottinge. The track emerged upon a bare plateau, from whence was a fine view of the surrounding country, and here was also a sharp freshness in the air, which the man inhaled with unmistakable enjoyment. Here, too, in the banks, were inviting burrows, and these afforded the dog an absorbing interest, as he drew their savour into his nostrils with long-drawn sniffs of ecstatic satisfaction.

After a tramp of between three and four miles, Wynyard threw himself down on a tempting patch of grass, drew out his case, and lit one of Martin Kesters' excellent cigars. His eyes roamed meditatively over the broad landscape below, stretching away into the dim distance -- the spreading uplands splashed with orange gorse, dotted with sheep and cattle, with here and there a rust-coloured farmhouse, whose pale blue smoke lazily ascended into the cool clear air. Wynyard enjoyed the scene and the sensation of absolute freedom; at least he was out of livery -- he glanced at his shabby tweed coat -- beyond the reach of orders, and master of himself! Not much to boast of! To think that this job was the only one he could take on when driven into a corner by circumstances and Uncle Dick! He had no head, that was his trouble, although he could keep it at a pinch -- and wasn't this what was called a paradox? If he were only clever with his tongue and his pen, like Leila, and had her talent for languages and for organisation, her genius for saying and doing the right thing!