On other days—and this amused Lily more than the County people—there were callers from Chapel Bridge itself. The vicar’s wife came and the doctor and the manager of the bank. Lily described them all in her letters. She was seldom malicious, and could write quite sincerely that Mr. Hassop was “delightfully vulgar.” She loved to see Papa strolling with him in the garden, chatting so amiably, offering him cigars. Mr. Hassop made her feel the prestige of the Hall in the village, among the churchwardens and substantial men. He spoke of Papa always as the Squire, Mamma he treated as a kind of Queen. And really, thought Lily, they’d make a most imposing royal couple.

That summer, in the hot garden, it had been like a world where nothing will ever happen. Mamma under the tree, exclaiming, as visitors were announced: “The Philistines are upon us!” Papa telling how an Italian coachman had jumped off the box and snapped Papa’s walking-stick across his knee in a fit of temper: “And, if you’ll believe me, he said neither Dog nor Cat—simply got back into his seat and drove as hard as he could go, down to the Villa.” Richard’s voice from the tennis court, calling the score. A beautiful, happy world, in which next summer would be the same, and the next and the next—the County gossip, the Balls, engagements being announced, girls “coming out,” talk about the cost of keeping up one’s place—the shooting, hunting, livestock—humorous allusions to people who’d made money in cotton—Mrs. Beddoes and the others passing between the tea-table and the cool house, with plates of cress and cucumber sandwiches. The old safe, happy, beautiful world.

*   *   *

Papa made a convulsive movement, as though to commit suicide by flinging himself out of the carriage. He was only trying to throw away his cigar. Kent climbed down from the box and took it from him, while Eric opened the park gates. Lily had seen Kent light Papa’s pipes, taking several pulls first at the pipe himself and wiping the mouthpiece on the sleeve of his coat. Another of his offices was to cut his master’s corns in his attic smoking-room with a razor. Now he stubbed out the cigar against the wheel. Lily couldn’t be sure whether he had or hadn’t slipped it into his pocket.

She looked at her watch, leant forward:

“I think we shall be just in time, after all,” she said to Mr. Vernon, being careful to pronounce the words very distinctly.

“What?”

He did not say What, but Whuh—this being an easy example of the grunt-language, unintelligible to almost everybody but Kent, Lily, Eric, Mrs. Beddoes and Mrs. Potts—in which he now spoke, partly through infirmity, partly through laziness.

“I don’t think we shall be very late, after all,” said Lily.

Mr. Vernon gave his affirmative grunt. He smiled widely. He didn’t care whether they were late or not.