“Letters late, as usual,” he said testily. “Postman chattering at the hall when he ought to be half way through the village. How long, O Lord, how long?”
He broke out into sharp criticism and condemnation of the old order, stigmatised as selfish, domineering, and negligent. Joyce listened deferentially. It was a real grief to her that parson and squire pulled against each other, because she saw clearly how much might have been achieved had they pulled together. Anyway, the Pomfrets had been charming to her and her brothers.
A bouncing parlourmaid entered with the belated letters and the Westminster Gazetter, which arrived by post, some three hours ahead of the daily papers—another Hamlin grievance. Hamlin took the letters from the servant, who went out. One letter, with a Rawal-Pindi postmark upon the envelope, was addressed to Joyce. Her father said carelessly:
“Who is your Indian correspondent?”
Joyce answered as carelessly:
“Lionel Pomfret.”
Hamlin opened his Westminster and became absorbed in a leading article. Joyce opened her letter, read it, and re-read it. She sat in her late mother’s place at the head of the table. Hamlin was standing near the window. She started slightly when she heard his voice.
“What does young Pomfret say for himself?”
“He is coming home. Oh, dear!”
Hamlin raised his dark brows. Joyce explained, less calmly: