"Oh, no thanks," said Monica quickly. "The Rectory is quite out of your way."
He felt the implication of an eldest sister's disapproval, and not wishing to spoil the omens of romance, he left the three sisters by the banks of the Greenrush and was soon on his way home through the webs of mist.
How extraordinary that he and Michael should have spent six weeks at Wychford without realizing that the Rector had three such daughters. Godbold had gossiped about him only this afternoon, reporting that he was held by some of his parishioners to be in with the Pope: they might more justly suspect him of being in with Titania. Monica, Margaret ... he had not heard the name of the third. Monica had seemed a little frigid, but Margaret and ... really when the omnibus arrived he must find out the name of the Rector's third daughter, of that one so obviously the youngest with her light brown hair and her laugh of which even now, as he paused, he fancied he could still hear the melodious echo. Monica, Margaret and ... Rose perhaps, for there had been something of a dewy eglantine about her. Surely that was indeed the echo of their voices; but, as upon distance the wayward sound eluded him, the belfry-clock with whirr and buzz and groan made preparation to strike the hour. Nine strokes boomed, leaving behind them a stillness absolute. The poet thought of time before him, of the three sisters by the river, of fame to come, and of his own fortune in finding Plashers Mead. Four months ago he had been in Macedonia, full of proconsular romance, and now he was in England with a much keener sense of every moment's potentiality than he had ever known in the dreams of oriental dominion. This sublunary adventure indicated how great a richness of pastoral life lay behind the slumber of a forgotten town; and it was seeming more than ever a pity Michael had not waited until to-night, so that he also might have met Monica and Margaret and that smallest innominate sister with the light brown hair. Guy could not help arranging with himself for his friend to fall in love with one of them; and since he at once allotted Monica to Michael, he knew that he himself preferred one of the others. But which? Oh, it was ridiculous to ask such questions after seeing three girls for three minutes of moonlight. Perhaps it really had been sorcery and in the morning, when he met them in Wychford High Street, they would appear dull and ordinary. They could not be so beautiful as he thought they were, he decided, since if they were he must have heard of their beauty. Nevertheless it was in a mood of almost elated self-congratulation that Guy found himself hurrying through the orchard toward the candlelight of his room.
The arrival of Miss Peasey, now that it was upon him, banished everything else; and instead of dreaming deliciously of that encounter in the water-meadows, he stood meditating on the failure of the kitchen. As he regarded the enormous dresser; the table trampling upon the fender; the seven dish-covers mocking his poor crockery, Guy had little hope that Miss Peasey would stay a week: and then suddenly, worse than any failure of equipment, he remembered that she might be hungry. He looked at his watch. A quarter-past nine. Of course she would be hungry. She probably had eaten nothing but a banana since breakfast in Cardiff. Guy rushed out and surprized the landlord of the Stag by begging him to send the hostler down at once with cold beef and stout and cheese.
"There's the bus," he cried. "Don't forget. At once. My new housekeeper. Long journey. And salad. Forgot she'd be hungry. Salt and mustard. I've got plates."
The omnibus went rumbling past, and Guy followed at a jog-trot down the street, saw it cross the bridge and, making a spurt, caught it up just as a woman alighted by the gate of Plashers Mead.
"Ah, Miss Peasey," said Guy breathlessly. "I went up the street to see if the bus was coming. Have you had a comfortable journey?"
"Mr. Hazlewood?" asked the new housekeeper blinking at him.
The guard of the omnibus at this moment informed Guy that he had some cases for Plashers Mead.
"Where is Mr. Hazlewood then?" asked Miss Peasey turning sharply.