“Amy,” I asked after breakfast, “would you care for a walk with me?”
“I'd like nothing better,” Amy said. “Unless you are planning one of your horrible expeditions to the top of Camp Hill.”
“Not at all,” I said. “A quiet stroll around the grounds only, to refresh our minds.”
“And talk about Mr Pringle, no doubt,” Mother said.
“He may come into the conversation,” I said.
Naturally, we did talk about Derek Pringle. Indeed, it was hard to divert Amy's attention away from that less-than-fascinating subject once we were outside the house.
I led us around the grounds, keeping to the well-maintained paths and the neatly-cropped grass, where no stray colliers were hiding. After the first half-hour of Amy's gushing about how perfect Mr Pringle was, and how happy they would be together, I vent
