Elaine looked disappointed. “Then it’s all an alle—gory, I s’pose.”
“No, it’s quite true, or at least I believe it is. Mr. Pithey”—Ruth turned on him and her grave eyes danced—“take a big bunch of your best roses, a big bunch, mind, down to the Fairbridge Common Lodging House for Women, in Darley Street, and tell the Elementals where you are taking them. It will stir them up no end to give you better roses.”
“The Common Lodging House!” Mr. Pithey was plainly aghast. “Why, they’d think I was mad, and ’pon my word and honour I think you are—if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Not a bit. I get told that nearly every day.”
“I’ll tell the Elementals, Daddy, and you can take the roses, and then we’ll see,” announced Elaine, who had been pondering the matter.
Mr. Pithey regarded her with pride. “Practical that, eh?” he said. “Well, we’ll think about it. But you’ll have to come along now or we’ll be late for tea with mother. And as to the roses, I’ll beat you yet. Elementals all nonsense! Dung—good rich dung—that’s what they want. You wait till next year.”
He shook hands warmly, and took his large presence away.
Ruth sent Moira home to tea, and wandered up the hedgerow, singing to her self, while Sarah and Selina hunted busily. On the terrace she found Roger North. He looked worn and ill and bad tempered. It was some time since he had been to see her. His wife’s jealousy of Ruth had culminated in a scene and he had a dread of disturbing the peace of the farm. But the silliness of the whole thing had irritated him, and he was worried about Violet on whom the strange black cloud had descended again more noticeably than ever. Riversley had gone to Scotland, writing him a laconic note, “I’m better away—this is my address if you want me.”
He drank his tea for the most part in silence, and when she had finished hers Ruth left him and went about her work. North lit his pipe and sat on smoking, while the two little dogs fought as usual for the possession of a seat in his chair, edging each other out. And presently Bertram Aurelius came staggering out of the front door and plump down on the ground before him. His red hair shone like an aureole round his head and he made queer and pleasant noises, gazing at North with friendly and evident recognition. Larry came padding softly up from his favourite haunts by the river and lay watching them with his wistful amber eyes.
“Thank God for the blessed things that don’t talk,” said North.