bottles of rum every week at the Green Man. And—one minute, please, Mr. Naylor—”
“I was only going to say that it looks to me as if this man Hooper were, or had been, a soldier. What do you think?”
“Never mind, Papa! Go on, Miss Wall. I’m interested.” This encouragement came from Gertie Naylor, a pretty girl of seventeen who was consuming much tea, bread, and honey.
“And since then the old gentleman and this Mr. Beaumaroy go to town regularly every week on Wednesdays! Now who are they, how did Mr. Saffron get hold of them, and what are they doing here? I’m at a loss, Anna.”
Apparently an impasse! And Mr. Naylor did not seem to assist matters by asking whether Miss Wall had kept a constant eye on the Agony Column. Mrs. Naylor took up her knitting and switched off to another topic.
“Dr. Arkroyd’s friend, Delia dear! What a charming girl she looks!”
“Friend, Anna? I didn’t know that! A patient, I understand, anyhow. She’s taking Valentine’s beef juice. Of course they do give that in drink cases, but I should be sorry to think—”
“Drugs, more likely,” Mr. Naylor suavely interposed. Then he rose from his chair and began to pace slowly up and down the long room, looking at his beautiful pictures, his beautiful china, his beautiful chairs, all the beautiful things that were his. His family took no notice of this roving up and down; it was a habit, and was tacitly accepted as meaning that he had, for the moment, had enough of the company, and even of his own sallies at its expense.
“I’ve asked Dr. Arkroyd to bring her over, Miss Walford, I mean, the first day it’s fine enough for tennis,” Mrs. Naylor pursued. There was a hard court at Old Place, so that winter did not stop the game entirely.
“What a name, too!”
“Walford? It’s quite a good name, Delia.”
“No, no, Anna! Beaumaroy, of course.” Miss Wall was back at the larger problem.
“There’s Alec’s voice. He and the General are back from their golf. Ring for another
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