On the day of the picnic Philip Barrimore hired a horse and rode over to Gissing. He had arranged for the bulk of his furniture to be delivered at the bungalow that evening, and had sent on his manservant, Davis, with a load of provisions, and to see a supply of coal got in.
Philip went first to the farm where his horse was to be stabled, and was met by Pickett, who had come from the hayfield to get some tea, which he hospitably asked Mr. Barrimore to share. Philip accepted the invitation gladly enough. He was hot and thirsty.
Mrs. Pickett—a comely matron with a jolly, red face—and Minnie, her buxom daughter, were already at table when Philip came in. They rose at once and bade him welcome, the mother placing a chair for him, while Minnie went to the big dresser for another cup and saucer.
Philip glanced round the big “house-place” with keen interest. It was the kind of fascinating room he had read of but never seen before. The floor was flagged, the windows small, with leaded panes, and rows of geraniums on the sills. Hams and flitches of bacon hung from the heavy oak beams in company with herbs and strings of onions. Bright copper utensils hung on the walls, where also was an old warming-pan. There was a tall grandfather clock—much older and handsomer than the one Philip had purchased that morning in High Street. The dresser! How Philip would have liked that dresser, and all the array of earthenware upon it!
All the furniture was of oak, and had, Mr. Pickett told Philip, been there for two hundred years.
“I wish you would let me bring an artist friend of mine to look at this place,” Philip said with enthusiasm.
“Glad to see him any time you like, sir,” replied the farmer. “That painter-chap that built the bungalow went wild about our things. He wanted to buy that old chest over against the far window, but we can’t part, sir! Those bits of things are part of the family—my great-grandfather put them here.”
“I quite understand your feeling, Pickett,” agreed Barrimore, taking the cup of tea Mrs. Pickett handed to him, and pouring rich cream into it.
“By the way, sir,” Pickett next remarked, “do you remember a queer sound we heard? You thought it singing.”
“Yes, have you found out anything about it?” inquired Philip, with sudden interest.