His own name was the first thing that Titus heard as he entered the drawing-room. He greeted it with an approving smile, and sat down by Laura, carefully crossing his long legs.
“She spurns at the brewery, and wants me to take a studio in Hampstead and model bustos,” he explained.
Titus had a soft voice. His speech was gentle and sedate. He chose his words with extreme care, but escaped the charge of affectation by pronouncing them in a hesitating manner.
“I’m sure sculpture is his métier,” said Sibyl. “Or perhaps poetry. Anyhow, not brewing. I wish you could have seen that little model he made for the grocer at Arcachon.”
Marion said: “I thought bustos always had wigs.”
“My dear, you’ve hit it. In fact, that is my objection to this plan for making me a sculptor. Revive the wig, and I object no more. The head is the noblest part of man’s anatomy. Therefore enlarge it with a wig.”
Henry thought the conversation was taking a foolish turn. But as host it was his duty to take part in it.
“What about the Elgin Marbles?” he inquired. “No wigs there.”
The Peruke and its Functions in Attic Drama, thought Titus, would be a pretty fancy. But it would not do for his uncle. Agreeably he admitted that there were no wigs in the Elgin Marbles.
They fell into silence. At an ordinary dinner party Caroline would have felt this silence to be a token that the dinner party was a failure. But this was a family affair, there was no disgrace in having nothing to say. They were all Willoweses and the silence was a seemly Willowes silence. She could even emphasise it by counting her stitches aloud.
All the chairs and sofas were comfortable. The fire burnt brightly, the curtains hung in solemn folds; they looked almost as solemn as organ pipes. Lolly had gone off into one of her day dreams, just her way, she would never trouble to give a party the least prod. Only Sibyl fidgeted, twisting her heel about in her satin slipper.
“What pretty buckles, Sibyl! Have I seen them before?”
Sibyl had bought them secondhand for next to nothing. They came from Arles, and the old lady who had sold them to her had been such a character. She repeated the characteristic remarks of the old lady in a very competent French accent. Her feet were as slim as ever, and she could stretch them out very prettily. Even in doing so she remembered to ask Caroline where they were going for the Easter holidays.
“Oh, to Blythe, I expect,” said Caroline. “We know it.”
“When I have evicted my tenants and brewed a large butt of family ale, I shall invite you all down to Lady Place,” said Titus.
“But before then,” said Laura, speaking rather fast, “I hope you will all come to visit me at Great Mop.”
Everyone turned to stare at her in bewilderment.
“Of course, it won’t be as comfortable as Lady Place. And I don’t suppose there will be room for more than one of you at a time. But I’m sure you’ll think it delightful.”
“I don’t understand,” said Caroline. “What is this place, Lolly?”
“Great Mop. It’s not really Great. It’s in the Chilterns.”
“But why should we go there?”
“To visit me. I’m going to live there.”
“Live there? My dear Lolly!”
“Live there, Aunt Lolly?”
“This is very sudden. Is there really a place called … ?”
“Lolly, you are mystifying us.”
They all spoke at once, but Henry spoke loudest, so Laura replied to him.
“No, Henry, I’m not mystifying you. Great Mop is a village in the Chilterns, and I am going to live there, and perhaps keep a donkey. And you must all come on visits.”
“I’ve never even heard of the place!” said Henry conclusively.
“But you’ll love it. ‘A secluded hamlet in the heart of the Chilterns, Great Mop is situated twelve miles from Wickendon in a hilly district with many beechwoods. The parish church has a fine Norman tower and a squint. The population is 227.’ And quite close by on a hill there is a ruined windmill, and the nearest railway station is twelve miles off, and there is a farm called Scramble Through the Hedge …”
Henry thought it time to interrupt. “I suppose you don’t expect us to believe all this.”
“I know. It does seem almost too good to be true. But it is. I’ve read it in a guidebook, and seen it on a map.”
“Well, all I can say is …”
“Henry! Henry!” said Caroline warningly. Henry did not say it. He threw the cushion out of his chair, glared at Laura, and turned away his head.
For some time Titus’s attempts at speech had hovered above the tumult, like one holy appeasing dove loosed after the other. The last dove was luckier. It settled on Laura.
“How nice of you to have a donkey. Will it be a grey donkey, like Madam?”
“Do you remember dear Madam, then?”
“Of course I remember dear Madam. I can remember everything that happened to me when I was four. I rode in one pannier, and you, Marion, rode in the other. And we went to have tea in Potts’s Dingle.”
“With sponge cakes and raspberry jam, do you remember?”
“Yes. And milk surging in a whisky bottle. Will you have thatch or slate, Aunt Lolly? Slate is very practical.”
“Thatch is more motherly. Anyhow, I shall have a pump.”
“Will it be an indoor or an outdoor pump? I ask, for I hope to pump on it quite often.”
“You will come to stay with me, won’t you, Titus?”
Laura was a little cast-down. It did not look, just then, as if anyone else wanted to come and stay with her at Great Mop. But Titus was as sympathetic as she had hoped. They spent the rest of the evening telling each other how she would live. By half-past ten
