for. Did one want grilled mushrooms, English fashion, they were there, black and moist and sizzling, and extremely edible; did one desire mushrooms
The exotic blooms that reigned in profusion over the other parts of the house were scrupulously banished from the breakfast-room; bowls of wild thyme and other flowering weeds of the meadow and hedgerow gave it an atmosphere of country freshness that was in keeping with the morning meal.
“You look dreadfully tired still,” said Cicely critically, “otherwise I would recommend a ride in the Park, before it gets too hot. There is a new cob in the stable that you will just love, but he is rather lively, and you had better content yourself for the present with some more sedate exercise than he is likely to give you. He is apt to try and jump out of his skin when the flies tease him. The Park is rather jolly for a walk just now.”
“I think that will be about my form after my long journey,” said Yeovil, “an hour’s stroll before lunch under the trees. That ought not to fatigue me unduly. In the afternoon I’ll look up one or two people.”
“Don’t count on finding too many of your old set,” said Cicely rather hurriedly. “I dare say some of them will find their way back some time, but at present there’s been rather an exodus.”
“The Bredes,” said Yeovil, “are they here?”
“No, the Bredes are in Scotland, at their place in Sutherlandshire; they don’t come south now, and the Ricardes are farming somewhere in East Africa, the whole lot of them. Valham has got an appointment of some sort in the Straits Settlement, and has taken his family with him. The Collards are down at their mother’s place in Norfolk; a German banker has bought their house in Manchester Square.”
“And the Hebways?” asked Yeovil.
“Dick Hebway is in India,” said Cicely, “but his mother lives in Paris; poor Hugo, you know, was killed in the war. My friends the Allinsons are in Paris too. It’s rather a clearance, isn’t it? However, there are some left, and I expect others will come back in time. Pitherby is here; he’s one of those who are trying to make the best of things under the new
“He would be,” said Yeovil, shortly.
“It’s a difficult question,” said Cicely, “whether one should stay at home and face the music or go away and live a transplanted life under the British flag. Either attitude might be dictated by patriotism.”
“It is one thing to face the music, it is another thing to dance to it,” said Yeovil.
Cicely poured out some more coffee for herself and changed the conversation.
“You’ll be in to lunch, I suppose? The Clubs are not very attractive just now, I believe, and the restaurants are mostly hot in the middle of the day. Ronnie Storre is coming in; he’s here pretty often these days. A rather good-looking young animal with something mid-way between talent and genius in the piano-playing line.”
“Not long-haired and Semetic or Tcheque or anything of that sort, I suppose?” asked Yeovil.
Cicely laughed at the vision of Ronnie conjured up by her husband’s words.
“No, beautifully groomed and clipped and Anglo-Saxon. I expect you’ll like him. He plays bridge almost as well as he plays the piano. I suppose you wonder at any one who can play bridge well wanting to play the piano.”
“I’m not quite so intolerant as all that,” said Yeovil; “anyhow I promise to like Ronnie. Is any one else coming to lunch?”
“Joan Mardle will probably drop in, in fact I’m afraid she’s a certainty. She invited herself in that way of hers that brooks of no refusal. On the other hand, as a mitigating circumstance, there will be a
Yeovil set out for his morning walk with the curious sensation of one who starts on a voyage of discovery in a land that is well known to him. He turned into the Park at Hyde Park corner and made his way along the familiar paths and alleys that bordered the Row. The familiarity vanished when he left the region of fenced-in lawns and rhododendron bushes and came to the open space that stretched away beyond the bandstand. The bandstand was still there, and a military band, in sky-blue Saxon uniform, was executing the first item in the forenoon programme of music. Around it, instead of the serried rows of green chairs that Yeovil remembered, was spread out an acre or so of small round tables, most of which had their quota of customers, engaged in a steady consumption of lager beer, coffee, lemonade and syrups. Further in the background, but well within earshot of the band, a gaily painted pagoda-restaurant sheltered a number of more commodious tables under its awnings, and gave a hint of convenient indoor accommodation for wet or windy
