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By Root 442 0

way. In a soft apologetic voice she explained to Joanna that she had never let her house before, indeed would never have thought of doing so, “but you see, my dear, things are so different nowadays—taxation, of course, and then my stocks and shares, so safe, as I always imagined, and indeed the bank manager himself recommended some of them, but they seem to be paying nothing at all these days—foreign, of course! And really it makes it all so difficult. One does not (I’m sure you will understand me, my dear, and not take offence, you look so kind) like the idea of letting one’s house to strangers—but something must be done, and really, having seen you, I shall be quite glad to think of you being here—it needs, you know, young life. And I must confess I did shrink from the idea of having Men here!”

At this point, Joanna had to break the news of me. Miss Emily rallied well.

“Oh dear, I see. How sad! A flying accident? So brave, these young men. Still, your brother will be practically an invalid—”

The thought seemed to soothe the gentle little lady. Presumably I should not be indulging in those grosser masculine activities which Emily Barton feared. She inquired diffidently if I smoked.

“Like a chimney,” said Joanna. “But then,” she pointed out, “so do I.”

“Of course, of course. So stupid of me. I’m afraid, you know, I haven’t moved with the times. My sisters were all older than myself, and my dear mother lived to be ninety-seven—just fancy!—and was most particular. Yes, yes, everyone smokes now. The only thing is, there are no ashtrays in the house.”

Joanna said that we would bring lots of ashtrays, and she added with a smile, “We won’t put down cigarette ends on your nice furniture, that I do promise you. Nothing makes me so mad myself as to see people do that.”

So it was settled and we took Little Furze for a period of six months, with an option of another three, and Emily Barton explained to Joanna that she herself was going to be very comfortable because she was going into rooms kept by an old parlourmaid, “my faithful Florence,” who had married “after being with us for fifteen years. Such a nice girl, and her husband is in the building trade. They have a nice house in the High Street and two beautiful rooms on the top floor where I shall be most comfortable, and Florence so pleased to have me.”

So everything seemed to be most satisfactory, and the agreement was signed and in due course Joanna and I arrived and settled in, and Miss Emily Barton’s maid Partridge having consented to remain, we were well looked after with the assistance of a “girl” who came in every morning and who seemed to be half-witted but amiable.

Partridge, a gaunt dour female of middle age, cooked admirably, and though disapproving of late dinner (it having been Miss Emily’s custom to dine lightly off a boiled egg) nevertheless accommodated herself to our ways and went so far as to admit that she could see I needed my strength building up.

When we had settled in and been at Little Furze a week Miss Emily Barton came solemnly and left cards. Her example was followed by Mrs. Symmington, the lawyer’s wife, Miss Griffith, the doctor’s sister, Mrs. Dane Calthrop, the vicar’s wife, and Mr. Pye of Prior’s End.

Joanna was very much impressed.

“I didn’t know,” she said in an awestruck voice, “that people really called—with cards.”

“That is because, my child,” I said, “you know nothing about the country.”

“Nonsense. I’ve stayed away for heaps of weekends with people.”

“That is not at all the same thing,” I said.

I am five years older than Joanna. I can remember as a child the big white shabby untidy house we had with the fields running down to the river. I can remember creeping under the nets of raspberry canes unseen by the gardener, and the smell of white dust in the stable yard and an orange cat crossing it, and the sound of horse hoofs kicking something in the stables.

But when I was seven and Joanna two, we went to live in London with an aunt, and thereafter our Christmas and Easter holidays were spent there with pantomimes and theatres