Mr. Naylor received few letters, for which the postman was grateful to providence. Had Streatham been a little more curious, it would have noticed that Mr. Naylor's comings and goings were fraught with some curious and interesting characteristics. For one thing he appeared constitutionally unable to proceed direct to a given point. For instance, if Hampstead were his object, he would in all probability go to Charing Cross, take a 'bus along Strand, the tube to Piccadilly Circus, a taxi to Leicester Square, tube to Golders Green and 'bus to Hampstead.
Another curious circumstance connected with Mr. Naylor was the number of people who seemed to stop him to enquire their way, obviously people who found it difficult to pronounce the names and addresses of those they sought, for they invariably held in their hands pieces of paper, which Mr. Naylor would read and then proceed to direct them. This would occur in all parts of London.
To the casual observer interested in the details of Mr. Naylor's life, it would have appeared that London waited for his approach, and then incontinently made a bee-line for him to enquire its way. With smiling geniality Mr. Naylor would read the paper offered to him, make one or two remarks, then with a wave of his hand and a further genial smile proceed on his way.
His courtesy was almost continental. He would take great pains to direct the enquirer, sometimes even proceeding part of the way with him to ensure that he should not go astray.
Since the war Mr. Naylor had patriotically given up his car, handing it over to the Red Cross, and receiving from the local secretary a letter of very genuine thanks and appreciation. There had also been a paragraph in The Streatham Herald notifying this splendid act of citizenship.
In nothing was Mr. Naylor's sense of Christian charity so manifest as in the patience with which he answered the number of false rings he received on the telephone. It was extraordinary the way in which wrong numbers seemed to be put through to him; yet his courtesy never forsook him. His reply was always the same. "No; I am Mr. Montague Naylor of Streatham." It frequently happened that shortly after such a call Mr. Naylor would go out, when James would be left in the front garden.
Mrs. Naylor had particular instructions always to make a note of any rings that came on the telephone during Mr. Naylor's absence, no matter whether they were for him or for anyone else. She was to take down every word that was said, and always say in response that the subscriber was on to Mr. Naylor of Streatham.
One morning whilst John Dene was giving down letters to Dorothy in his customary jerky manner, Mr. Naylor sat at breakfast, his attention equally divided between the meal and the morning paper. Opposite sat Mrs. Naylor, watching him as a dog watches a master of uncertain temper. She was a little woman with a colourless face, from which sparse grey hair was drawn with puritan severity. In her weak blue eyes was fear—fear of her lord and master, and in her manner deprecation and apology.
The only sound to be heard were the champing of Mr. Naylor's jaws, and the occasional rustle of the newspaper. Mr. Naylor was a hearty eater and an omnivorous reader of newspapers. In the front garden James gave occasional tongue, protesting against the existence of some passer-by.
After a particularly vigorous bout of barking on James's part, Mr. Naylor looked up suddenly and, fixing Mrs. Naylor with astern eye, demanded, "Any post?"