"Got a drop or two of petrol still, you see,"
he remarked. "Mainly owing to the mater's
activities."
The village of Styles St. Mary was situated
about two miles from the little station, and
Styles Court lay a mile the other side of it.
It was a still, warm day in early July.
As one looked out over the flat Essex
country, lying so green and peaceful under
the afternoon sun, it seemed almost
impossible to believe that, not so very far
away, a great war was running its
appointed course. I felt I had suddenly
strayed into another world. As we turned in
at the lodge gates, John said:
"I'm afraid you'll find it very quiet down
here, Hastings."
"My dear fellow, that's just what I want."
"Oh, it's pleasant enough if you want to
lead the idle life. I drill with the volunteers
twice a week, and lend a hand at the
farms. My wife works regularly 'on the
land'. She is up at five every morning to
milk, and keeps at it steadily until
lunchtime. It's a jolly good life taking it all
round if it weren't for that fellow Alfred
Inglethorp!" He checked the car
suddenly, and glanced at his watch. "I
wonder if we've time to pick up Cynthia.
No, she'll have started from the hospital
by now.
"Cynthia! That's not your wife?"
"No, Cynthia is a protegee of my
mother's, the daughter of an old
schoolfellow of hers, who married a
rascally solicitor. He came a cropper,
and the girl was left an orphan and
penniless. My mother came to the
rescue, and Cynthia has been with us
nearly two years now. She works in the
Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster,
seven miles away."
As he spoke the last words, we drew up
in front of the fine old house. A lady in a
stout tweed skirt, who was bending
over a flower bed, straightened herself
at our approach.
"Hullo, Evie, here's our wounded hero!
Mr. Hastings—Miss Howard."
Miss Howard shook hands with a
hearty, almost painful, grip. I had an
impression of very blue eyes in a