Mr. Clover’s ineptitudes fell upon tense pauses, and remained unanswered.
Gradually the little man’s kind, anxious face showed a faint reflection of the misery that was so plainly to be read upon the Canon’s.
Flora’s face looked set in its gravity, Adrian was frankly sulky and resentful, and Lucilla’s impassivity was tinged with regretfulness.
Outside sounds struck almost with violence upon the silence within, and Mr. Clover murmured distressfully:
“A motor going along the road, towards the town.”
“The craze for rapid transport is ruining our English countryside,” said the Canon. “Frankly, I cannot away with it. What profit or pleasure can there be in whirling past unseen scenery, leaving clouds of dust and an evil odour behind?”
No one attempted to defend the satisfaction to be derived from the pastime so epitomized, and the Canon after a moment pushed back his chair.
“Don’t move—do not move on any account. Clover, you will pardon me, I know. I have a great deal of writing to get through. I shall require no coffee, Lucilla.”
He went out of the room, unsmiling, and with a slow, dejected step, his grey head a little bowed forward.
“How long is this going to last?” inquired Adrian, after a moment.