The unsuspecting Magnet, fatigued but happy--for three hours of solid
humorous writing (omitting every unpleasant suggestion and mingling in
the most acceptable and saleable proportions smiles and tears) had added
its quota to the intellectual heritage of England, made a simple light
lunch cooked in homely village-inn fashion, lit a well merited cigar,
and turned his steps towards the vicarage. He was preceded at some
distance along the avenuesque drive by the back of Mr. Trafford, which
he made no attempt to overtake.
Mr. Trafford was admitted and disappeared, and a minute afterwards
Magnet reached the door.
Mrs. Pope appeared radiant--about the weather. A rather tiresome man had
just called upon Mr. Pope about business matters, she said, and he
might be detained five or ten minutes. Marjorie and Daffy were
upstairs--resting. They had been disturbed by bats in the night.
"Isn't it charmingly rural?" said Mrs. Pope. "_Bats!_"
She talked about bats and the fear she had of their getting in her hair,
and as she talked she led the way brightly but firmly as far as possible
out of earshot of the windows of the ultra Protestant study in which Mr.
Pope was now (she did so hope temperately) interviewing Mr. Trafford.