“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Wait. I must go and speak to Uncle Tim. I shall be an hour. Be ready for me out here under this tree in an hour’s time. It will be seven o’clock.”
“What do you mean?” he asked her again, but she had gone.
She had picked up an old garden hat in the hall, and now very swiftly hurried up the village road. She walked, the dust rising about her and the black cloud gaining in size and strength behind her. Uncle Tim’s house stood by itself at the farther end of the village. She looked neither to right nor left, did not answer the greeting of the villagers, passed quickly through the little garden, over the public path and rang the rusty, creaking bell. An old woman, who had been Uncle Tim’s housekeeper for an infinite number of years, opened the door.
“Ah, Miss Kathie,” she said, smiling. “Do ee come in. ’E’s gardenin’, poor soul. All of a sweat. Terrible ’ot ’tis, tu. Makin’ up thunder I’m thinkin’.”
Katherine went into the untidy, dusty hall, then into her uncle’s study. This had, ever since her childhood, been the same, a litter of bats, fishing-rods, specimens of plants and flowers drying on blotting paper, books lying in piles on the floor, and a pair of trousers hanging by a nail on to the back of the door.
She waited, seeing none of these familiar things. She did not, at first, see her uncle when he came in from the garden, perspiration dripping down his face, his old cricket shirt open at the neck, his grey flannel trousers grimed with dust.
“Hullo, Katie!” he cried, “what do you want? And if it’s an invitation to dinner tell ’em I can’t come.” Then, taking another look at her, he said gravely, “What’s up, my dear?”
She sat down in an old arm-chair which boasted a large hole and only three legs; he drew up a chair close to her, then suddenly, as though he saw that she needed comfort, put his arms round her.
“What’s the matter, my dear?” he repeated.