Annie still hung her head and plucked at her fingers. She looked at the clock and said:
“Mr. Serge ought to be here now, sir. He’s generally here before this. There aren’t many gentlemen like Mr. Serge, are there, sir?”
“I hardly know,” replied Francis. “I hardly know, but my experience of the world has been very limited. . . . Do you tend the garden yourself?”
“Yes, sir. I help Mrs. Entwistle. I’ve learned such a lot about the garden since I’ve been here.”
“I had a garden, once, in my old living.” He described the garden at St. Withans, and the exercise of visualising the lawns and borders and the orchard under the church-tower and waking the faint echo of his old joy in it won him back to greater confidence. He talked of flowers and bees and birds until there came a knock at the door, when, with joyful alacrity, Annie hurried to open it. Serge came in with paint-box and sketch-book strapped together and slung over his shoulder. He nodded to his father and sat down by the table. Annie brewed him fresh tea and he said:
“Jolly place this?”
“Delightful,” replied Francis.
“Don’t you think she’s looking well?”
“Very. I should hardly have known her again.”
“She’s in good hands. Mrs. Entwistle has taken her to her heart—me too, and if you come often enough she’ll find room for you. It’s delightfully warm and comfortable and roomy. I never knew such a heart. You meet all sorts of delightful people in it, all the nicest people in the Bible, and hundreds of children, and everybody loves everybody else. Don’t they Annie?”