As is usual in such cases, I beg to enclose five pounds to defray expenses, to be repaid from salary at your convenience.
The Pauncefotes left for Wiltshire the following day.
Supine on the turf beneath a chestnut, Oliver laid down his pipe and praised God. By his side, Jean, looking years younger, sat clasping her knees and regarding a peerless avenue of aged elms. Behind them, Hallatrow Hall, grey and long and low, basked in the evening sunshine like an old hound.
It was the quiet hour.
The Pauncefotes’ work was over for the day.
The house had been thoroughly aired, two rooms had been cleaned, their quarters had been put in order, a report had been written, letters had been re-addressed. The latter lay in a pile upon the turf, awaiting the postman.
“Jean,” said Oliver suddenly, “we’ve much to be thankful for.”
“Yes,” said his wife, “we have.”
“We had much more once,” said Pauncefote. “But it never occurred to us then.”