If Mr. Fothersley could have called down fire from heaven and slain Mr. Pithey at that moment, he would undoubtedly have done so; as it was, he could only struggle impotently for words wherewith to convey to him some sense of his insufferable impertinence.
And words failed him. His little round face quivering with rage, he stammered for a moment unintelligibly, making furious gestures with his disengaged hand at the astonished Mr. Pithey. Finally he turned his back and thrust the basket of strawberries into Ruth’s hand.
“Please send the basket back at your convenience, Miss Seer,” he said. Even in that moment he did not forget the importance of the return of one of the Leigh Manor baskets. “Good-morning.”
“Touching little brute,” remarked Mr. Pithey cheerfully, gazing after him. “What’s upset him now? He’ll have an apoplectic fit if he walks at that rate in this heat, a man of his built and a hearty eater too!”
Indeed poor Mr. Fothersley, by the time he reached the Manor, between rage and nervousness, for who could say what thoughts Mr. Pithey’s egregious remarks might not have given rise to in Miss Seer’s mind, was in a very sad state.
It was impossible to risk driving to Westwood in an open car. He ordered the landaulette, closed.
It was necessary to go because he had Miss Seer’s telegram to deliver. Also the desire was strong upon him for the people of his own little world, those who felt things as he felt them, and saw things even as he saw them. He wanted to talk over the various small happenings of the morning with an understanding spirit; the sweep’s familiarity, Miss Seer’s odd activities, and last, but not least, Mr. Pithey’s hateful facetiousness. Above all, though he hardly knew it himself, he wanted to get with people who were the same as people had been before the war, to get away from this continual obtrusion of an undercurrent of difference, of change, which so disquieted him, and he wanted, badly wanted, comfort and sympathy.
The Norths were by themselves, and proportionately glad to see him. Violet had left, on a sudden impulse, that morning, and fresh visitors were not expected till the following week.
The very atmosphere of Nita North comforted the little man. The atmosphere of the great commonplace, the unimaginative, the egotistic. An atmosphere untouched by the war. Peace descended on his troubled spirit as he unfolded his table napkin and watched the butler, in the very best manner of the best butler lift the silver cover in front of Mrs. North from the golden-brown veal cutlets, each with its dainty roll of fat bacon, Mr. Fothersley’s favourite luncheon dish, while North, who had his moments of insight, said:
“Some of the Steinberg Cabinet for Mr. Fothersley, Mansfield.”