He gave a gesture which meant that the English language provided no adequate words. His wife, with one hand upon his shoulder, offered an “Ah!” of content.
“You must paint this,” he went on, recovering powers of speech. “You must bring your easel and your white umbrella some morning when I’m busy, and try to get this effect. See the top of the church spire above the trees?”
“That there’s a oast house,” interrupted the driver.
“You will not forget that I shall have my duties in the village,” she reminded him. “We are going to make life brighter, you know, for everybody.”
“True!” he admitted. “It will require discretion.”
“And diplomacy.”
“Still, we’re not exactly amateurs. We bring something like a ripe experience to the task. This will be child’s play after London. Think of the difference in numbers. Driver, how many inhabitants are there in Murford Green?”
“Can’t say as I ever counted ’em.”
“But speaking approximately.”
“Well,” said the driver, with deliberation, “speaking approximately, I should say they was no better than they ought to be. And you’ll excuse me, but I’ve got to get back to meet the five-eight, and if you and your lady could give me what you may call permission to go on now without any more pulling up, I shall jest do it. Otherwise I shan’t, and then Miss Bulwer won’t let me never hear the last of it. That’s what she won’t!”