The long lazy afternoons of July, full of strong heat and the
intense perfume of field-flowers, had never seemed so long and lazy
to John Walden as during this particular summer. He felt as if he
had nothing in the world to do,--nothing to fill up his life and
make it worth living. All his occupations seemed to him very
humdrum,--his garden, now ablaze with splendid bloom and colour,
looked tawdry, he thought; it had been much prettier in spring-time
when the lilac was in blossom. There was not much pleasure in
punting,--the river was too glassy and glaring in the sun,--the
water dripped greasily from the pole like warm oil--besides, why go
punting when there was nobody but one's self to punt? Whether it was
his own idle fancy, or a fact, he imagined that the village of St.
Rest and its villagers had, in some mysterious way, become separated
from him. Everybody in the place, or nearly everybody, had something
to do for Miss Vancourt, or else for one or other of Miss Vancourt's
guests. Everything went 'up to the Manor '--or came 'down from the
Manor'--the village tradespeople were all catering for the Manor--
and Mr. Netlips, the grocer, driving himself solemnly ever to
Riversford one day, came back with a board--'a banner with a strange
device'--painted in blue letters on a white ground, which said: