“Not in so many words, but in effect.”
“Well, I’m——”
“You’re not a bit glad. You’re horrified. Common-sense is and always will be sordid to you. Lotta and I cooked chestnuts over a fire. We shall go on cooking chestnuts till we die. How’s Ann?”
“Gone.”
“I thought that would happen. You and I busted her between us—her pride, her joy in living, her rather slovenly habits of mind. You didn’t know you were doing it. I did. I’m an awful swine. I told Lotta all about it—as we were cooking chestnuts. She refused to believe me.”
There was a tap at the door, and Casey appeared. He rushed excitedly at René, and began to pour out an excited tale of how he had found the very thing, a livery yard at Rickham, thirty miles out of London to the northwest.
“Our station,” said Kilner. “Lotta’s and mine.”
“It’s a busy little town, but it needs brisking up, like you say, Mr. Fourmy; it needs motor-cars and a garage. That yard’s the very thing, only a hundred yards from the station. There are people with cars living near, but they have to go five miles for repairs, and the trades-people can’t have cars, because there is no one to look after them. It’s the chance. I’ve got an option on the yard till next week. Will you take it up? I’ve got a map. See?”
He produced his map and showed the geographical advantages of Rickham. It had already good water and electric light. Its train service had been enormously improved, and it only needed the country round to be opened up. “Don’t you see, Mr. Fourmy, it’s your idea?”
René had half-forgotten it. Casey explained, and showed the ring of little country towns round London, how they had come to life again, as markets, as centers, and how in many of them factories were being built and all kinds of people were coming out from London to live in or near them.