They drew up at a wooden gate, painted dull green, supported by low pillars of old brick-work between the hawthorn hedges; saw, peering through it, a small gravel-drive, a huge walnut tree just in leaf, and a long low house, door in centre, double-floored under projecting eaves.
“Francis,” cried Patricia, “this is it.”
He looked at her; saw a woman transformed. Her cheeks glowed; her lips were half-parted; her slumbrous eyes danced and kindled.
“My dear Pat . . .” he began.
“Don’t tell me I haven’t seen it yet, Francis. Don’t tell me it won’t do; that the drains will be all wrong; that it’s a hundred miles from anywhere. Because I don’t care. This is going to be my home—mine and Peter’s. . . .”
Mr. Tebbits found them by the gate.
“You been wounded, mister?” he asked, looking at the sticks Francis carried.
“Yes,” admitted Francis.
“Ah. At the war, I expect. This be a mighty bad war. I’ve got five sons there myself. All in the Ox and Bucks they be. Two’s Corporals. Charlie, he couldn’t go; nor Harry neither.” He turned to Patricia. “This be Sunflowers, missis. Likely you’d care to go in.”
He swung open the gate; held it while Francis hobbled through. “The paddick goes with the house,” explained Tebbits, “but if you wasn’t thinking ’bout keeping stock, I’d be just as glad to have it for my cows.”