Robert stood up and his face was white with anger, but he only said a cold “Good day” as he made for the door. His wife and sister ran to him and seized an arm each and his brother-in-law told him not to be a fool. “It’s only politics,” he said. “You take things too seriously. Come, sit down, and Edith’ll tell the girl to bring in a cup of tea before you go on to Ann’s.” But Robert walked out of the house and away down the street after saying over his shoulder to his wife, “See you later.”

He had no sense of humour. None of them had at that moment. Laura’s mother was all apologies. Her uncle, still angry, but a little ashamed, said he was sorry for her. Her aunt wiped her eyes on a pretty lace-edged handkerchief and Laura’s needed wiping, for was not their long-looked-for day ruined if their lovely drive behind Polly had only led to this.

It was her mother, who did not pretend to be well-bred, yet always managed to do or say the right thing, who eased the situation by saying: “Well, he’ll have to come back presently to harness the horse and he’ll be sorry enough by that time, I dare say, and I think I will have that cup of tea, if Bertha’s got the kettle boiling. Just a cup to drink. Nothing more to eat, really. Then we must be getting on.”

22

Kind Friends and Relations

After a decent interval, during which everybody tried to talk as though nothing had happened, the two children with their mother set out to follow their father to Aunt Ann’s, Laura dragging behind a little, for the sun was hot and she was tired and not sure that she liked Candleford.

She soon cheered up; there was so much to see. Houses, houses all the way, not rows of houses, all alike, like peas in a pod, but big and little, tall and low, with old grey walls between with broken bottle-glass on the coping and fruit trees waving in gardens behind, and queer door-knockers and little shed-like porches, and people walking in their thin best shoes on the cobblestones with bunches of flowers, or prayer books, or beer jugs in their hands.

Once, at a turning, they caught a glimpse of a narrow lane of poor houses with ragged washing slung on lines between windows and children sitting on doorsteps. “Is that a slum, Mother?” asked Laura, for she recognized some of the features described in the Sunday-school stories.