In fact, as regards the nursery party at Wren's End, Miles strongly resembled William before a fire—you might drive him away ninety and nine times, he always came thrusting back with the same expression of deprecating astonishment that you could be other than delighted to see him.
Whither was it all tending? Jan wondered.
No further news had come from Hugo; Peter, she supposed, had sailed and was due in London at the end of the week.
Then Mr. Huntly Withells asked her one afternoon to bicycle over to see his spring irises—he called them "irides," and invariably spoke of "croci," and "delphinia"—and as Meg was taking the children to tea at the vicarage, Jan went.
To her surprise, she found herself the sole guest, but supposed she was rather early and that his other friends hadn't come yet.
They strolled about the gardens, so lovely in their spring blossoming, and it happened that from one particular place they got a specially good view of the house.
"How much larger it is than you would think, looking at the front," Jan remarked. "You don't see that wing at all from the drive."
"There's plenty of room for nephews and nieces," Mr. Withells said jocularly.
"Have you many nephews and nieces?" she asked, turning to look at him, for there was something in the tone of his voice that she could not understand.
"Not of my own," he replied, still in that queer, unnatural voice, "but you see my wife might have ... if I was married."