Francis and Harry had this feeling, too.

They were like three people who have been fighting their way through a fierce storm of wind, rain and thunder, for many hours. And suddenly the storm is over, a hush falls, they stumble into a quiet lamplit room and close the door. They stand staring at one another in silence, wearily wiping the rain from their faces, too tired to speak. But their bright eyes are eager with questions as they stare round the room. How quiet it is! Is everything really over – really ended at last? What’s going to happen now?

CHAPTER IV

Uncle Preston was extremely annoyed when Francis rang up at eight o’clock that night to announce that he was all right. Uncle Preston was tempted to say that he did not care whether Francis was all right or not, but he did not say so, because he always tried to forgive people and never to say anything disagreeable or honest, no matter how badly people behaved to him or let him down.

So all he said was:

‘Oh, is that you, Francis? Rather odd, my dear boy, was it not, to disappear this afternoon in the way you did? Not very considerate, was it, to all your friends and relations? Several people asked after you; old cousin Clara (she was a Mumford, you know, you must often have heard your poor father speak of the Mumfords) wanted to see “Hartley’s youngest boy.” Yes. Yes. Eh?’

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘She was very disappointed. Quite upset. Eh?’

‘Sorry … I mean, was she? Oh.’

‘Yes. Your Aunt Maxine, too. She wanted to have a little talk with Sophia. I thought Sophia did not look at all well. Aunt Maxine … eh?’

‘I said – I’m sorry I must cut off now, Uncle Preston. My housemaster wants to see me.’

‘Of course. Yes. Well, I am glad to know you are all right, my boy. Get a good night’s rest. It will do us all good. Eh? Well, goodbye … Goodbye. We shall all meet again on Sunday, for the reading of the Will. I shall see you then. Well, goodbye, Francis, goodbye.’

‘Goodbye,’ said Francis. And after he had hung up the receiver, he added under his breath ‘Cissie.’

Uncle Preston went pattering back into the sitting room where Auntie Loo sat mending his socks.

He felt more cheerful; he was looking forward to Sunday when they would all meet again.

There was nothing Uncle Preston liked better than all meeting again. If he had had his way, the family would have all lived in one enormous house in the middle of a desert, where there was no one else for them to meet, and seen each other every day. Nothing upset him more than a family row. When one occurred, which was every five weeks or so, Uncle Preston could not rest until he had rung up everybody and told everybody how dreadful it was, and collected everybody’s opinion about it. He would then patter round to see the two chief persons concerned and try to get them to make it up. He usually succeeded; because, much as the Gardens loved quarrelling, they loved not being bothered by Uncle Preston even better, and they gave in out of sheer weariness. (Not from boredom; no Garden was ever bored by family affairs.)