“Well hit, sir; oh, well hit. . . . Make it five. I beg your pardon, sir. . . I don’t think I’m reading anything in particular.”
Slowly it became evident to Mr. Leeming that the audience which he had honoured with his company was bored. With great dignity he picked himself up and left them.
“He’s a funny old swine,” said Douglas.
“I used to think he was rather decent,” said Edwin. “Horribly ‘pi’ you know.”
“I don’t trust him,” said Douglas. “I always feel as if he’s up to some low-down business or other. He goes mooching about in those old felt slippers of his, and you never know where he is. The other day he came into the long box-room when Griff and I were there playing Nap. You couldn’t tell he was coming. He’s like a damned old tomcat. I can’t think how you stick him, Ingleby. . . .”
“I don’t, really,” Edwin confessed.
“And old Griff says he follows him like a shadow. Just lately he’s taken to haunting the swimming-bath. I don’t know what he goes there for. He never used to. He never goes in. I don’t suppose the fat beast can swim.”
“He could float . . .” said the practical Widdup.
The golden afternoon dragged out its lovely length. The atmosphere of luxurious indolence grew so heavy that it became too great an effort to think of carrying the rugs and deck-chairs back to the studies; and when Douglas had left them to keep an appointment with Griffin, Widdup and Edwin sat on till the meadows swam with soft golden light, till the tops of the pyramidal lime-trees became the colour of their blossoms, and the sun cast long shadows upon the yellow fields. In this delightful hour the sounds of the match from which excitement had faded almost as the fierceness had faded from the sky, became no more than a placid accompaniment to the dying day. At six-thirty stumps were drawn. The wide fields began to empty and soon no life was seen upon them but low dipping swallows who skimmed the smooth lawn as though it were the surface of some placid lake. Upon the hillside a straggling trail of boys could be seen taking home their rugs and cushions as though they were returning from a day of toil instead of one of the most exquisite idleness.
“Come on,” said Widdup at last; “we shall be late for chapel.” And indeed another twenty minutes found them assembled in the oak pews for evensong. They sang the Nunc Dimittis, a canticle which for all the rest of his life Edwin associated with the placid closing of a summer day, and the mild rays of the departing sun blazed through the stained glass of the west window upon the pale mosaic of the nave. When they emerged from the chapel the sun had set, the skyline of the downs lay low and almost cold, and cockchafers were whirring blindly among the sticky tops of the conifers along the chapel path.