The car swept along the drive, past the party on the lawn, and drew up at the front door. Then, as they bundled out, a tall old man, without a hat and dressed in grey tweed, detached himself from the lawn crowd and came towards them.
This was Sir Squire Simpson, Bart. His head was dome-shaped, and he had heavy eyelids that reminded one of half-closed shutters, and a face that seemed carved from old ivory—an extremely serious-looking person and a stately; but he was glad to see Pugeot, and he advanced with a hand outstretched and the ghost of an old-fashioned sort of smile.
"I've brought some friends down to stay at the hotel," said Pugeot, "and I thought we would drop in here for tea first. Didn't expect to find a party going on."
"Delighted," said the Squire.
He was introduced to "My friend, Mr. Pettigrew, Madame—er—de Rossignol, Mademoiselle de Rossignol, Mr. Ravenshaw."
Then the party moving towards the lawn, they were all introduced to Lady Simpson, a harmless-looking individual who welcomed them and broke them up amongst her guests and gave them tea.
Bobby, detaching himself for a moment from the charms of Miss Squire Simpson, managed to get hold of Pugeot.
"I say," said he, "don't you think this may be a bit too much for uncle?"
"Oh, he's all right," said Pugeot; "can't come to any harm here. Look at him, he's quite happy."
Simon seemed happy enough, talking to a dowager-looking woman and drinking his tea; but Bobby was not happy. It all seemed wrong, somehow, and he abused Pugeot in his heart. Pugeot had said himself a moated grange was the proper place for Uncle Simon, and even then he might tumble into the moat—and now, with the splendid inconsequence of his nature, he had tumbled him into this whirl of local society. This was not seclusion in the country. Why, some of these people might, by chance, be Uncle Simon's clients!