CHAPTER VII
Mr. Johnson was genuinely surprised at the expression in his companion’s face when, at the end of that drive home through the drowsy afternoon, she put out her hand to wish him good-by. He forgot her shabby little black lace hat with its two rather battered red roses, her scratched and mended gloves, the thin ready-made wrap around her linen frock. She was no longer a sulky, tired, young woman. For a single moment she was beautiful.
“You have given me quite a wonderful afternoon, Mr. Johnson,” she said, “and I am ashamed of myself for having been so quiet all the way home. I am afraid I must have seemed almost ungracious. I wasn’t. I was just enjoying it all, and—thank you!”
She was gone before he could do anything but return heartily the warm pressure of her fingers, but she seemed to him to walk with a new grace as she stepped lightly up the tiled path, turned the shining brass door handle, and disappeared into the Little House. He turned round to his car, but instead of making for his own heavy oak gates, he reversed slowly down the lane, swung round in front of the Ballaston Arms and entered. The same little company were assembled in the bar, with the exception of Rawson and the addition of Walter Beavens, the local wheelwright, and Tom Foulds, the veterinary surgeon.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Mr. Johnson said cheerfully. “A long and dusty ride from Norwich, Mr. Landlord. I’ll take a whisky and soda—a large soda, please, and a piece of lemon, if you have such a thing.”
He settled down into a chair with the air of a man who intends to make himself at home, and began to fill his pipe. Mr. Craske was his immediate neighbour. A little distance away the young man Fielding was busy with a box of flies.
“So you had a look at the Hall this morning, sir,” the grocer remarked. “I saw you coming through the gates.”
“I lunched there,” Mr. Johnson confided. “A magnificent place it is, and full of treasures, too! Why, the pictures and tapestries alone must be worth a fortune.”
Mr. Foulds joined in the conversation. He was a ruddy-faced young man, inclined to be stout, dressed in somewhat sporting fashion, with riding leggings which he was continually tapping with a switch.
“Worth a mint of money, those tapestries,” he declared. “Came from Versailles, some of them—the more modern ones—at the time of the Revolution. Good pictures, too, any quantity of them. I should say the contents of the Hall were worth the best part of half a million. Queer situation, ain’t it?”