“Your Mother’s not very bobbish this morning,” he said. “Sick headache, or something of the sort.”
“I’m not surprised,” answered Joyce, with a little sarcastic laugh which plainly suggested that Lord Ottery was the cause of her mother’s ill-health. She walked with a long, swinging stride up the avenue of elms which led towards the old house, so that her father lagged a little behind her.
He remarked that the crops were coming along well, in spite of the dry weather. He also expressed annoyance because the villagers had been breaking down some of the fences on the south side of the park.
“The spirit of Bolshevism,” he said. “All those young fellows back from the war are socialists and lawbreakers. I can’t understand it. They weren’t like that after the South African War.”
Joyce continued walking in silence. Bertram, stealing a glance at her, saw that there was a bright spot of colour on each cheek—danger signals. It was when she reached the lawns outside the house, and saw its old grey walls and mullion windows close to the terrace, and the sloping banks with their clipped hedges, that she turned on her father and revealed her anger and her anguish.
“Father! I can’t believe it’s true! You couldn’t bring yourself to do it!”
“Do what, my dear?”
Lord Ottery put on his vacant look, and opened his mouth a little, like a stupid rustic.
“Put the house up for sale!”
“Oh, the house! Oh, Lord! Who told you that? Have they put it up for sale? I’ve seen nothing about it in the Press.”