_As is usual in such cases, I beg to enclose five pounds to
defray expenses, to be repaid from salary at your convenience._
The Pauncefotes left for Wiltshire the following day.
* * * * *
Supine on the turf beneath a chestnut, Oliver laid down his pipe and
praised God. By his side, Jean, looking years younger, sat clasping her
knees and regarding a peerless avenue of aged elms. Behind them,
Hallatrow Hall, grey and long and low, basked in the evening sunshine
like an old hound.
It was the quiet hour.
The Pauncefotes’ work was over for the day.
The house had been thoroughly aired, two rooms had been cleaned, their
quarters had been put in order, a report had been written, letters had
been re-addressed. The latter lay in a pile upon the turf, awaiting the
postman.
“Jean,” said Oliver suddenly, “we’ve much to be thankful for.”
“Yes,” said his wife, “we have.”
“We had much more once,” said Pauncefote. “But it never occurred to us
then.”
Jean shook her beautiful head.
“We never had more,” she said, “to be thankful for. We never had half so
much. Still, we might have been grateful.”
“We had more, really,” said Oliver, “but we didn’t appreciate it. Now
that we’ve been through the mill——”
“I never had more,” said Jean.
There was a silence.