Sam watched him go into the house, and then bent over the mowing machine in a paroxysm of helpless laughter.
“Golly—he’s a rum ’un—but not so soft as he looks.”
For young Sam Petch had many failings, but also the great virtue of being able to enjoy a joke against himself.
Meanwhile, Andy made his way to Mrs. Simpson’s sale, and as he entered the house the auctioneer’s raucous voice could be heard selling the spare-bedroom furniture. Every one was upstairs save a few who waited in the dining-room so as to have a good place when the auctioneer came in there.
Mrs. Thorpe and Mrs. Will Werrit, for instance, had planted themselves firmly by the table on which Mrs. Simpson’s cut glass and china were displayed. They were not surprised to see the new Vicar, as they supposed he would be wanting things for his house, and Mrs. Thorpe tore herself away from a fascinating and confidential conversation with her neighbour to say pleasantly glancing at him over her ample chest—
“I hope you’re comfortable at Gaythorpe, Mr. Deane?”
That was what Mrs. Thorpe wanted every one to be in this world—comfortable—and it was certainly what she hoped for in the world to come.
“I’m more than comfortable,” said Andy. “I love the place already. And after London it seems so peaceful—like one big family.”
Mrs. Will Werrit’s thin lips curled at the corners.
“Are big families peaceful in London?” she said.