I waited for the rest, but I suppose her courage failed her, or else the organ drowned it; at all events, the second line,
‘“Where did you get that tile?”
did not come in. But I think we ought to speak to our auntie, Susan, don’t you? That sort of thing is very well outside, but in a church! Betty, you look as if you’d love to speak to somebody. We’ll put you on for this job. You shall expostulate with Aunt Jemima on her deplorable weakness for low-class comic songs.’
‘I shall leave you to interview her on the subject,’ says Betty.
‘Interview! What a splendid word!’ says Dom. ‘What’ll you sell it for?’ But Betty very properly decides on not hearing him.
Softly, sweetly, the sun is going down, topping the distant hills, and now falling behind them. A golden colour is lighting all around. Overhead the swallows are darting here and there, and from the beds of mignonette in the old-fashioned garden exquisite perfumes are wafted; and now ‘at shut of evening flowers’ faint breezes rise, and corners grow rich in shadows, and from the stream below comes a song that makes musical the happy hours.
Crosby, with a sigh of distinct regret, rises to his feet.
‘I fear I must go,’ says he.
‘What, not so soon?’ cries Carew, getting up too. Indeed, as Crosby persists, though evidently with reluctance, in his determination to leave them, they all get up, the innate courtesy of this noisy group being their best point.
‘Have another cigarette for the walk home?’ says Dom hospitably.