ved books. Though he had never realised that hedgerows flower
in the spring and that trees redden to gold and copper in the autumn,
the country had taken upon him so great a hold that even the thought of
leaving it was pain.

'Oh! no,' he said hurriedly. 'I couldn't leave Cray. I couldn't live
here, it's too noisy. There are my old rooms, there, the house with the
torch extinguishers.'

Victoria looked at him again. What curious tricks does nature play and
how strangely she pleases to distort her own work! Then she looked at
the house with the extinguishers. Clearly it would be impossible, but
for those aristocratic remains, to distinguish it from among half a
dozen of its fellows. It was a house, that was all. It was faced in
dirty brick, parted at every floor by stone work. A portico, rising over
six stone steps, protected a door painted brown and bearing a brass
knocker. It had windows, an area, bells. It was impossible to find in it
an individual detail to remember.

But Edward was talking almost excitedly for him. 'See there,' he said,
'those are my old rooms,' pointing indefinitely at the frontage. 'They
were quite decent, you know. Wonder whether they're let. You could have
them.' He looked almost sentimentally at the home of the Wrens.

'Why not ring and ask?' said Victoria, whose resourcefulness equalled
that of Mr Dick.

Edward took another loving look at the familiar window, strode up the
steps, followed by Victoria.

There were several bells. 'Curious,' he said, 'she must have let it out
in floors; Wakefield and Grindlay, don't know them. Seymour? It's Mrs
Brumfit's house: Oh! here it is.' He pressed a bell marked 'House.'
Victoria heard with a curious sensation of unexpectedness the sudden
shrill sound of the electric bell.

After an interminable interval, during which Edward's hands nervously
played, the door opened. A young girl stood on the threshold. She wore a
red cloth blouse, a black skirt, and an unspeakably dirty apron half
loose round her waist. Her hair was tightly done up in curlers in
expectation of Sunday.

'Mrs Brumfit,' said Edward, 'is she in?'

''oo?' said the girl.

'Mrs Brumfit, the landlady,' said Edward.

'Don't know 'er, try next 'ouse.' The girl tried to shut the door.

'You don't understand,' cried Edward, stopping the door with his hand.
'I used to live here.'

'Well, wot do yer want?' replied the girl. 'Can't 'elp that, can I?
There ain't no Mrs Brumfit 'ere. Only