"As you like, but it really isn't necessary."
Sir Julian began to pull on his driving-gloves.
"Don't forget, Julian, to say something about 'Why, Ben!' to Mark Easter. I suppose he will be pleased. And couldn't one—without hurting his feelings, of course—say something about the children being up and about rather early? I mean to say, I'm fond of the little things, when Ruthie behaves and Ambrose doesn't whine, and they don't quarrel—but we can't have them getting into the habit of running in and out of the house at breakfast-time."
"Heaven forbid!"
"Well, try and say something, if you can."
"I'll see."
Sir Julian took his place at the steering-wheel.
He was a tall, thin man, ten years older than his wife, his dark hair already sparse upon the crown of his head, his clean-shaven hatchet face wearing an habitual look of sardonic melancholy. His dark eyes, set in a network of wrinkles, betrayed humour, but, nevertheless, they seldom smiled.
At the bottom of the winding, shady drive he turned the car out of the stone gateway and on to the high-road. A hundred yards further on he stopped in front of a small slate-roofed villa standing in an enclosure of raggedly-growing laurel hedge and untidy fencing, of which half the wooden palings were tumbling down.
At the first sound of the horn hooting an announcement of arrival, the small, pretentious-looking front door burst open, and Miss and Master Easter precipitated themselves down the garden-path, vociferating greetings in unresentfully complete oblivion of their recent unceremonious ejection at the hands of their neighbour.