eplied Mary, doubtfully, "and I think he'd
only laugh if I asked him. He seemed glad when he thought he had escaped
the celebration."

"Did he, indeed? How true it is that real courage is always modest! But
it would be an eternal disgrace to Little Primpton if we did not welcome
our hero, especially now that everything is prepared. It must not be
said that Little Primpton neglects to honour him whom the Empire has
distinguished."

After turning over many plans, they decided that the procession should
come to Primpton House at the appointed hour, when Captain Parsons would
receive it from the triumphal arch at the gate.... When the servant
announced that the function was ready to begin, an announcement
emphasised by the discordant notes of the brass band, Mary hurriedly
explained to James what was expected of him, and they all made for the
front door.

Primpton House faced the green, and opposite the little village shops
were gay with bunting; at the side, against the highroad that led to
Groombridge, the church and the public-house stood together in friendly
neighbourhood, decorated with Union Jacks. The whole scene, with its
great chestnut-trees, and the stretch of greenery beyond, was pleasantly
rural, old-fashioned and very English; and to complete it, the sun shone
down comfortably like a good-natured, mild old gentleman. The curate,
with a fine sense of order, had arranged on the right the school-boys,
nicely scrubbed and redolent of pomatum; and on the left the girls,
supported by their teachers. In the middle stood the choir, the brass
band, and Mr. Dryland. The village yokels were collected round in
open-mouthed admiration. The little party from the house took their
places under the triumphal arch, the Clibborns assuming an expression of
genteel superciliousness; and as they all wore their Sunday clothes,
they made quite an imposing group.

Seeing that they were ready, Mr. Dryland stepped forward, turned his
back so as to command the musicians, and coughed significantly. He
raised above his head his large, white clerical hand, stretching out the
index-finger, and began to beat time. He bellowed aloud, and the choir,
a bar or so late, followed lustily. The band joined in with a hearty
braying of trumpets.

"_See, the conquering Hero comes,_
_Sound the trumpets; beat the drums._"

But growing excited at the music issuing from his throat, the curate
raised the other hand which held his soft felt hat