The Drum jutted out obtrusively; the front faced down the road towards the Manor, and one side was parallel to the street, and whoever entered or left was well in evidence. Lady Kesters asked for dinner and a sitting-room, as if such were a matter of course! The sole sitting-room was just across the passage from the bar and overlooked the street. It was oak-panelled, very low, the walls were decorated with cheap prints and faded photographs of cricket groups, there was a round table, three or four chairs, and an overpowering atmosphere of stale beer.
“Oh, let me see—I’ll have some tea and roast chicken,” announced the traveller.
“Chicken, ma’am?” repeated Mrs. Frickett, and her tone was dubious. “I don’t know as I can run to that. The hens is roosting now.”
“Oh, well,”—impatiently—“bacon and eggs. I’ll go and take a turn about the village.”
With her veil drawn over her face, Lady Kesters walked out, went slowly up to the church, and critically inspected the Parsonage. Then, just inside the churchyard, she discovered her brother sitting on a tombstone. As he sprang to meet her, she exclaimed—
“Are you smiling at Grief?”
“Hullo, Sis, this is most awfully good of you! How are you? Very fit?”
“Yes. Do come out of this horribly dismal rendezvous, and let us go down one of the lanes, and talk.”
“Aren’t you tired?”
“No, only hungry. I’ve ordered a meal at the Drum. I’m tired of sitting in a train or motor, and glad of a walk. Well, Owen, so far so good—six months are gone—hurrah!”