“Do you approve?”
“Er—oh, yes, of course—I suppose so. But how shall we—”
“That’s easily arranged. Any town firm will be glad of the order. It will be more expensive, but will probably be better done. In any case we have no choice.”
“It’s such a tiny village. Where could the men sleep?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. That is their business, not mine. We shan’t have any difficulty about that,” Charmion declared, and she was right, for the West End firm who received our instructions waved aside the question with smiling assurance. They were accustomed to sending workmen all over the country. To the loneliest places. All could be easily arranged. We were left with the impression that if it had been our pleasure to pitch our tent in the Sahara, the frock-coated manager would have executed our wishes with equal ease. So far, so good; but as we left the shop Charmion turned to me, and said darkly:—
“I think, under the circumstances, it might be wise to change our minds about employing country maids, and to engage London ones instead.”
“You are afraid—”
“I am afraid of nothing, but I think it probable that the local girls who wrote to us about situations may now be ‘urgently’ bespoken for service at Uplands.”
“Well, he will need servants,” I said feebly, and fell to thinking of Uplands itself, and of how unfortunate it seemed that General Underwood should be settling so near ourselves. We had noticed the house, indeed, we could not fail to do so, as it lay a quarter of a mile along the high road from Pastimes, on the direct route from Escott, which was Mr Maplestone’s village. It was a handsome-looking house, but painfully prosaic, built of grey stone, unsoftened by creepers, and showing a row of windows flat and narrow, and extraordinarily high. One could just imagine the rooms, like so many boxes, and the hall flag-tiled, and the house full of draughts, for the windows of the principal living-rooms faced perversely towards the north. I hoped the poor General would instal a heating system and a generous supply of rugs; but what chiefly concerned me at the moment was the thought that every time—every single time—that cross, red-headed man came over to visit his relative, he must pass our door!
My imagination immediately conjured up half a dozen irritating encounters. Evelyn returning home on a wet day, bedraggled, not at her best, toiling along the wet lane, and being splashed with mud by the wheels of a giant car, from the cushioned seat of which the Squire and his wife regarded her with lofty disdain. There was a Mrs Maplestone, and I had drawn a mental picture of her, which I felt sure was true to life. Small, meek, rather pretty, with big brown eyes which held a chronic expression of being rather frightened by what had just gone before, and exceedingly anxious as to what should come next. She would probably wear handsome furs, and a hat three seasons old.