“Ingram’s coming up to tea, but there’s nothing charming about his wife,” said Penhallow, with brutal frankness. “She’s as rangy as old Clara here, and not so good-looking. The best thing I know of Myra is that she’s bred a couple of lusty sons, and that with no more fuss and to-do than my Rachel would have made.”
This shaft impaled two victims, as it was intended to do. Faith flushed painfully, and Rosamund, the mother of three daughters, stiffened. The entrance of Ingram and Myra was felt to create a welcome diversion.
Ingram, who was rather gregarious, greeted everyone with loud-voiced heartiness; and as Myra was both shrill and voluble, Bart, who had entered the room in their wake, was able to pause for an instant by the table which Loveday was quietly spreading with one of Clara’s crochet-edged cloths, and to exchange a low word with her. She shot him a warning glance, and whispered that she must see him presently. He said tersely: “Schoolroom, as soon as this mob has cleared off.”
She saw that Penhallow’s eyes were upon them, and said clearly: “You’ll find them in your room, sir.”
“What?” said Bart, unused to such subtleties. Then he too saw that his father was watching them, and added: “Oh, I see! All right!”
“Ah, here he is!” Phineas exclaimed, coming towards him, with his white hand outstretched. “My dear fellow, what a giant you have become, to be sure!”
“It would, I suppose, be tactless to remind Uncle Phineas that the twins attained their present stature six years ago,” remarked Eugene softly to his Auntie Clara.
“For goodness’ sake, don’t you go makin’ bad worse!” she replied “You’d better let me pour out, Faith. You’ll only go asking’ everyone whether they take milk or cream, and upsettin’ the conversation, if you do it. There’s no need to wait for the Vicar. I daresay he won’t come.”
“I’m afraid,” said Faith to Delia, with a slight laugh, “that I’m one of those hopelessly unpractical people who never can remember who takes cream, and who doesn’t.”
“I’m not at all surprised, not at all!” Delia assured her. “Such a big family as you have to pour out for! I’m sure I should always forget, for I have a head like a sieve. So unlike dear Rachel! Now, Rachel never forgot anything. I often used to say that she ought to have been a man. Not that I meant to speak of — But I’m sure you don’t mind — Always so sensible!”
“Talking of Rachel?” said Penhallow, suddenly propelling his chair towards them. “What a woman! What a grand lass she was! By God, she’d drive the lot of us the way she wanted to go, whether we wanted to or not, eh, Delia?”
“She was always so good — so kind!” Delia stammered. “Such a strong character — there was no one like her.”
“No, nor there ever will be. No offence to you, my dear,” he added, turning to his second wife.
Delia began nervously to fidget with the clasp of her handbag. “I’m sure dear Faith — Not that anyone could take Rachel’s place, but it takes all sorts to make a world, doesn’t it? Oh, Conrad, thank you, is this my tea? So wonderful of Clara to remember just how I like it!”
At this moment, Ingram suddenly became aware of his half-brother’s presence. He broke off in the middle of what he was saying to Phineas to exclaim: “Good lord, the kid’s back! Hallo, how are you?”
“I’m all right,” Clay answered.
Ingram looked him over critically, remarking with the paralysing candour of his family that it was time he started to furnish a bit. He grasped Clay’s arm above the elbow, feeling his muscle, and expressed himself as profoundly dissatisfied. “Why, my young rascal, Rudolph, could give you a stone!” he said. “Bertie’s got more muscle than you! Hi, Ray! you’ll have to do something about the kid! He’s growing up a positive weed!”
The fact that Ingram’s elder son was only two years junior to him always had the effect of making Clay feel that Ingram was even farther removed from him in age than Raymond. He stood more in awe of him, hated his loud, cheerful voice, and lost no time in escaping from his clutch. Phineas engaged Ingram’s attention once more by inquiring after the health and progress of Rudolph and Bertram, and Ingram was still descanting upon this theme when Reuben Lanner ushered the Vicar into the room.
The Reverend John Venngreen, a stout cleric with a wide, bland smile, and a gift for overlooking the obvious which amounted to genius, came in exuding good-will. Finding one member of the household, Ingram, boring the circle by the fire with an account of his sons’ exploits; another, Penhallow himself, reducing his wife and sister in- law to a condition of acute discomfort; a third, Eugene, apparently suffering from acute spiritual nausea; and a fourth, Clay, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible at his Aunt Clara’s elbow, he was prompted to exclaim: “Ah, this is a pleasure indeed! And may I be allowed to join this happy family party? Penhallow, my dear fellow! Mrs Penhallow! Mrs Hastings! Mrs Ingram, my indefatigable helper! I am more fortunate than I knew! Mrs Eugene, too, as bright and blooming as ever! Well, well, well!”
“Where’s your wife?” demanded Penhallow, wheeling his chair round and shaking hands.
“Alas!” The Vicar’s smile widened, and he made a deprecating gesture. “She sent me to be the bearer of her excuses. This east wind had awakened her old enemy, I fear, and she would not venture out.”
“There!” said Penhallow, with an air of chagrin. “And I particularly arranged for poor little Jimmy to be kept out of the way!”
The Vicar managed, by suddenly affecting to perceive Rosamund for the first time, to remain deaf to this outrageous speech. He said: “If it is not Mrs Clifford! How do you do? And your dear little girls? Your nosegay of bright blossoms!”
“Now, don’t talk nonsense!” said Penhallow. “There’s nothing wrong with the kids, but one of ’em’s got teeth that stick out. You ought to do something about it, Rosamund. You don’t want her growing up rabbit-faced.”
“That’s right,” agreed Clara. “She ought to have a plate made for her, poor little soul! I remember we had to have one made for Char, and look at her now!”
Ingram was at once reminded of all the improper uses to which Charmian had put her plate, and Rosamund, ignoring the whole family, made room for the Vicar to sit down on the sofa beside her, and engaged him in a rather conventional conversation about gardening. Clifford went over to the tea-table, and after exchanging a few words with his mother, smiled in a friendly way at Clay, and asked him when he thought of starting work with him.
“I told you, nothing is settled yet,” Clay replied desperately. “I may as well tell you that I was never consulted about this, and it’s absolutely the last thing in the world I want to do! I don’t mean that I’m not very grateful to you, and all that, for being willing to take me, but I shouldn’t be the least use to you, and I do wish to God you’d say something to Father!”
“Well, well, you never know what you can do till you try!” said Clifford bracingly. Feeling himself to be standing on the brink of deep waters, he sought to escape by hailing Raymond, who was coming towards the table with Delia’s cup-and-saucer. “Hallo, Ray, old boy! Donkey’s years since I laid eyes on you! How’s the young stock?”
Raymond set the cup-and-saucer down before Clara, saying briefly: “Aunt Delia,” and turned to his cousin. “I’ve got one hit, and several promising colts.”
“Yes, Ingram told me about your Demon colt. I’d like to have a look at him. Got anything likely to suit me?”
“I might have. Come up to the stables presently, and you can cast your eye over what I’ve got.”
“If he weren’t a bit short of bone, that liver-chestnut would do nicely for Cliff, Ray,” remarked Clara, replenishing Delia’s cup.
“Cliff likes a lot in front of him,” put in Bart. “Tell you what, Cliff, I’ll sell you my Thunderbolt!”
“Why, what’s wrong with him?” retorted Clifford.
“I don’t like a sorrel,” said Clara, with a decisive shake of her head.
“A good horse,” said Bart sententiously, “can’t be a bad colour. There’s nothing wrong with him.”
“Barring his being at least three inches too long behind the saddle,” interpolated Raymond dryly.
Realising that Clifford was now embarked fairly upon a discussion of horseflesh which would in all probability last for the rest of his stay, Clay relieved his feelings by saying, “O God!” under his breath, and sighing audibly.
As might have been expected, the conversation gradually extended to nearly everyone else in the room; and after arguing loudly over the merits and demerits of quite half the horses at present in the stables or out to grass, the Penhallows surged out, under Penhallow’s direction, to conduct the guests to the stud-farm. As this lay at a considerable distance from the house, the services of all the available cars were requisitioned, Penhallow himself being hoisted into the dilapidated limousine, which Bart had had to fetch from the garage to accommodate him, the Vicar, Faith, Clara, and Phineas. Delia, after fluttering about in an aimless fashion for a few minutes, got into
