ike that. Never
plump out over a thing he put up. Niggling. And then this infernal
business about the letter. That word "funny." She must have used it a
hundred times. Still.... The niggling had been carried off, they had
gone into the garden together; and this infernal letter business--at
least he had come away without boiling over about it. Much better to
have come away as he did.... Still....

V

A gong boomed enormously through the house. It had been one of her
father's wedding presents to Mabel and it always reminded Sabre of the
Dean's, her father's voice. The Dean's voice boomed, swelling into a
loud boom when he was in mid-speech and reverberating into a distant
boom as his periods terminated. This was the warning gong for lunch. In
ten minutes, in this perfectly ordered house, a different gong, a set of
chimes, would announce that lunch was ready. The reverberations had
scarcely ceased when Low Jinks, although she had caused the
reverberations, appeared in his room with a brass can of hot water.

"Mr. Boom Bagshaw has not arrived yet, sir," said Low Jinks; "but the
mistress thought we wouldn't wait any longer."

She displaced the ewer from the basin and substituted the brass can. She
covered the can with a white towel, uncovered the soap dish, and
disappeared, closing the door as softly as if it and the doorpost were
padded with velvet. Perfect establishment!

Sabre washed his hands and went down. Mabel was in the morning room,
seated at the centre table where the flowers had been and where now was
her embroidery basket. She was embroidering, an art which, in common
with all the domestic arts, she performed to perfection. "Bagshaw's
late?" said Sabre.

Mabel glanced at the clock. Her gesture above her busy needle was
pretty.

"Well, he wasn't absolutely sure about coming. I thought we wouldn't
wait. Ah, there he is."

Sabre thought, "Good. That business is over. Nothing in it. Only Mabel's
way."

Sounds in the hall. "In the morning room," came Low Jinks's voice.
"Lunch ... wash your hands, sir?"

There was only one person in all England who, arriving at Crawshaws,
would not have been gently but firmly enfolded by the machine-like order
of its perfect administration and been led in and introduced with rites
proper to the occasion. But that one person was the Reverend Cyril Boom
Bagshaw, and he now strolled across the threshold and into the room.

VI

He strolled in. He wore a well-made suit