A big, comfortable, shabby room with French windows opening into the garden, at the bottom of which—in the summer months—the river ran.
As she stood looking about her, sniffing the old familiar smell of tobacco and leather and experiencing, as always, a nostalgic thrill and a vague wish that it were possible to put the clock back, there came through the French window a girl in overalls, who, having stared for a moment in astonishment, uttered a delighted squeal.
"Moke ... darling!"
Monica turned.
"Jill, my angel!"
They flung themselves into each other's arms.
Jill Wyvern was young, very pretty, slightly freckled and obviously extremely practical and competent. She wore her overalls as if they had been a uniform. Like Monica, she was small, and an admirer of hers, from Bloomsbury, had once compared her, in an unpublished poem, to a Tanagra statuette.
It was not a very apt comparison, for Tanagra statuettes, whatever their merits, are on the static side and Jill was intensely alert and alive. She moved with a springy step and in her time had been a flashy outside-right on the hockey field.
"My precious Moke," she said. "Is it really you? I thought you were in Jamaica."
"I got back this morning. I picked up Rory in London, and we motored down here.
Rory's outside, looking after the bags."
"How brown you are!"
"That's Montego Bay. I worked on this sunburn for three months."
"It suits you. But Bill didn't say anything about expecting you. Aren't you appearing rather suddenly?"
"Yes, I cut my travels short rather suddenly. My allowance met those New York prices and gave up the ghost with a low moan.
Ah, here's the merchant prince."
Rory came in, mopping his forehead.
"What have you got in those bags of yours, old girl? Lead?" He saw Jill, and stopped, gazing at her with wrinkled brow. "Oh, hullo," he said uncertainly.
"You remember Jill Wyvern, Rory."
"Of course, yes. Jill Wyvern, to be sure. As you so sensibly observe, Jill Wyvern. You been telling her about your sunburn?"
"She noticed it for herself."
"It does catch the eye. She says she's that colour all over," said Rory confidentially to Jill. "Might raise a question or two from an old-fashioned husband, what? Still, I suppose it all makes for variety. So you're Jill Wyvern, are you? How you've grown!"
"Since when?"
"Since ... since you started growing."
"You haven't a notion who I am, have you?"
"I wouldn't say that ..."
"I'll help you out. I was at your wedding."
"You don't look old enough."
"I was fifteen. They gave me the job of keeping the dogs from jumping on the guests. It was pouring, you may remember, and they all had muddy paws."
"Good God! Now I have you placed. So you were that little squirt. I noticed you bobbing about and thought what a frightful young excrescence you looked."
"My husband is noted for the polish of his manners," said Monica. "He is often called the modern Chesterfield."
"What I was about to add," said Rory with dignity, "was that she's come on a lot since those days, showing that we should never despair. But didn't we meet again some time?"
"Yes, a year or two later when you stayed here one summer. I was just coming out then, and I expect I looked more of an excrescence than ever."
Monica sighed.
"Coming out! The dear old getting-ready-for- market stage! How it takes one back. Off with the glasses and the teeth-braces."
"On with things that push you in or push you out, whichever you needed."
This was Rory's contribution, and Monica looked at him austerely.
"What do you know about it?"
"Oh, I get around in our Ladies'
Foundation department," said Rory.
Jill laughed.
"What I remember best are those agonized family conferences about my hockey-player's hands. I used to walk about for hours holding them in the air."
"And how did you make out? Has it paid off yet?"
"Paid off?"
Monica lowered her voice confidentially.
"A man, dear. Did you catch anything worth while?"
"I think he's worth while. As a matter of fact, you don't know it, but you're moving in rather exalted circles. She whom you see before you is none other than the future Countess of Rowcester."
Monica screamed excitedly.
"You don't mean you and Bill are engaged?"
"That's right."
"Since when?"
"Some weeks ago."
"I'm delighted. I wouldn't have thought Bill had so much sense."
"No," agreed Rory in his tactful way.
"One raises the eyebrows in astonishment.
Bill, as I remember it, was always more of a lad for the buxom, voluptuous type. Many a passionate romance have I seen him through with females who looked like a cross between pantomime Fairy Queens and all-in wrestlers. There was a girl in the Hippodrome chorus—"
He broke off these reminiscences, so fraught with interest to a fianc@ee, in order to say "Ouch!" Monica had kicked him shrewdly on the ankle.
"Tell me, darling," said Monica.
"How did it happen? Suddenly?"
"Quite suddenly. He was helping me give a cow a bolus—"
Rory blinked. "A—?"
"Bolus. Medicine. You give it to cows. And before I knew what was happening, he had grabbed my hand and was saying, "I say, arising from this, will you marry me?"'"
"How frightfully eloquent. When Rory proposed to me, all he said was "Eh, what?"'"
"And it took me three weeks to work up to that," said Rory. His forehead had become wrinkled again.
It was plain that he was puzzling over something. "This bolus of which you were speaking. I don't quite follow.
You were giving it to a cow, you say?"
"A sick cow."
"Oh, a sick cow? Well, here's the point that's perplexing me. Here's the thing that seems to me to need straightening out. Why were you giving boluses to sick cows?"
"It's my job. I'm the local vet."
"What! You don't by any chance mean a veterinary surgeon?"
"That's right. Fully licensed. We're all workers nowadays."
Rory nodded sagely.
"Profoundly true," he said. "I'm a son of toil myself."
"Rory's at Harrige's," said Monica.
"Really?"
"Floorwalker in the Hosepipe, Lawn Mower and Bird Bath department," said Rory.
"But that is merely temporary. There's a strong rumour going the rounds that hints at promotion to the Glass, Fancy Goods and Chinaware. And from there to the Ladies' Underclothing is but a step."
"My hero!" Monica kissed him lovingly.
"I'll bet they'll all be green with jealousy."
Rory was shocked at the suggestion.
"Good God, no! They'll rush to shake me by the hand and slap me on the back. Our esprit de corps is wonderful. It's one for all and all for one in Harrige's."
Monica turned back to Jill.
"And doesn't your father mind you running about the country giving boluses to cows? Jill's father," she explained to Rory, "is Chief Constable of the county."
"And very nice, too," said Rory.
"I should have thought he would have objected."
"Oh, no. We're all working at something.
Except my brother Eustace. He won a Littlewood's pool last winter and he's gone frightfully upper class. Very high hat with the rest of the family. Moves on a different plane."
"Damn snob," said Rory warmly. "I hate class distinctions."
He was about to speak further, for the subject was one on which he held strong opinions, but at this moment the telephone bell rang, and he looked round, startled.