Peter leaned forward, said to the driver: “Take the Arlsfield road when you come to it. Straight on through the village and then up to Tebbits’ Farm.”
The man merely nodded. They came to a village-green; shot across it. More hedges—a red-brick townlet. Now, the road rose straight ahead of them; looking forward over her bobbing trunk, Beatrice saw a tree-crowned ridge.
“Oh,” she said suddenly, “what a lovely house!”
“That’s Sunflowers.” He did not seem particularly proud of the place; but he jumped out of the car politely enough; swung the gate for it to enter; ran to the front door. The door was open; and Beatrice saw a woman standing in the doorway—a tall golden-haired woman.
“Pat,” ejaculated Peter, “there’s a girl—”
“I know,” said Patricia, “I’ve been expecting her.”
The next moment, Beatrice found herself being helped out of the car; shaken hands with; asked if she’d like to wash before tea.
“I must ask Peter one question first; you don’t mind, do you? He’s just been up for his Board, and I want to know what they’ve done to him. Peter!”
“Yes, dear. . . .”
Beatrice tried not to listen; but she couldn’t help hearing the brief colloquy: “What happened?” “Oh, they fired me out. Napoo. Fini.” Then Patricia took her by the arm; rushed her through a brightly furnished hall, up some blue-carpeted stairs to a chintz-curtained room—and there, without any warning at all, her hostess burst into tears.