together and were confronted by the Air Vice-Marshal, who was looking at us gravely. The Squire's sister was standing at his side. He turned to her and, addressing the Rector's wife and me together, said: "I think we have accepted this lady's invitation to lunch." Both the ladies smiled, nervously, but almost as though they were discounting his behaviour at the funeral. "I don't think that I shall come," I said, and looked angrily at them from face to face. The Rector's wife had an imploring look in her eyes. The Squire's sister was staring at the ground. "No doubt I shall see you later," the Vice-Marshal said, "that is, if your mother will be good enough to put me up for the night." I could find nothing even approximately polite to say; so I turned away from them and walked quickly out of the churchyard.
CHAPTER VII
New Plans
I WALKED slowly up the hill to the pub and, when I had entered the door, found the bar more than usually full of men who were talking animatedly, still wearing the suits which they had worn at the funeral. Those who noticed me stopped talking and one or two came forward and shook hands with me. They looked hard into my eyes with set jaws, and I saw in their faces, even though some of them were already drunk, more affection and more respect for the dead man than anything else which I had seen that day. We said nothing; indeed I knew that my presence had momentarily constrained their conversation; and I went to the bar, behind which Bess was serving, to order myself a drink. Bess, too, was wearing the dress which she had worn at the funeral, but her face was alive with a gaiety that rather surprised me. As she handed me my tankard she leant her head close to mine, so that the yellow hair brushed against my cheek, and whispered: "I'm free at two o'clock." She blushed as her eyes met mine, and I nodded my head. All the distress which I had felt that day, all the humiliations which I fancied I had suffered seemed to be lost in the concentration of my desire for her. I thought again, as I had thought that morning while watching the blackbirds on the lawn, of how it would be if she and I were always together, always eager for each other, and the thought made me feel faint. By now she had turned to another customer, and I took the cold handle of the tankard in my hand and turned back into the room. The men around me were still silent, evidently at a loss as to how they should speak to me of the funeral. At last Mac placed his tankard on the bar and, looking round him as though he anticipated contradiction, said: "Say what you like, the old Rector was a good man." There was a chorus of "He was that", and only Tony, the village carpenter, a thin wizened man who rarely said anything at all at these gatherings, spoke up suddenly and said: "More respect ought rightly to have been paid." "It's a fact," came from some of the others. "It's a bloody fact," and now I noticed in their faces both bewilderment and anger. "What do you think about the Air Force occupying the village?" I asked, and at once everybody started speaking. George Birkett elbowed his way forward through the others until he faced me. He must have drunk much before the funeral, and now his face was oddly flushed in patches of red between the pieces of sticking plaster. "What do you think, Mr Roy?" he asked. "Was that chap mad? The old Squire wouldn't allow it, would he now?" There was something pathetic in the tone of voice used by the big half-drunken man. The others clustered round waiting attentively for what I had to say, and I told them briefly what I knew, that the Squire, however he might wish to do so, could not resist the demands of the Government, and that in all probability everything which the Air Vice-Marshal had said was strictly true. When I had finished there was a silence of consternation. Then nearly everyone started speaking at once in a hubbub of high and angry voices. Fred made himself heard above the rest. As I remember him he
CHAPTER VII
New Plans
I WALKED slowly up the hill to the pub and, when I had entered the door, found the bar more than usually full of men who were talking animatedly, still wearing the suits which they had worn at the funeral. Those who noticed me stopped talking and one or two came forward and shook hands with me. They looked hard into my eyes with set jaws, and I saw in their faces, even though some of them were already drunk, more affection and more respect for the dead man than anything else which I had seen that day. We said nothing; indeed I knew that my presence had momentarily constrained their conversation; and I went to the bar, behind which Bess was serving, to order myself a drink. Bess, too, was wearing the dress which she had worn at the funeral, but her face was alive with a gaiety that rather surprised me. As she handed me my tankard she leant her head close to mine, so that the yellow hair brushed against my cheek, and whispered: "I'm free at two o'clock." She blushed as her eyes met mine, and I nodded my head. All the distress which I had felt that day, all the humiliations which I fancied I had suffered seemed to be lost in the concentration of my desire for her. I thought again, as I had thought that morning while watching the blackbirds on the lawn, of how it would be if she and I were always together, always eager for each other, and the thought made me feel faint. By now she had turned to another customer, and I took the cold handle of the tankard in my hand and turned back into the room. The men around me were still silent, evidently at a loss as to how they should speak to me of the funeral. At last Mac placed his tankard on the bar and, looking round him as though he anticipated contradiction, said: "Say what you like, the old Rector was a good man." There was a chorus of "He was that", and only Tony, the village carpenter, a thin wizened man who rarely said anything at all at these gatherings, spoke up suddenly and said: "More respect ought rightly to have been paid." "It's a fact," came from some of the others. "It's a bloody fact," and now I noticed in their faces both bewilderment and anger. "What do you think about the Air Force occupying the village?" I asked, and at once everybody started speaking. George Birkett elbowed his way forward through the others until he faced me. He must have drunk much before the funeral, and now his face was oddly flushed in patches of red between the pieces of sticking plaster. "What do you think, Mr Roy?" he asked. "Was that chap mad? The old Squire wouldn't allow it, would he now?" There was something pathetic in the tone of voice used by the big half-drunken man. The others clustered round waiting attentively for what I had to say, and I told them briefly what I knew, that the Squire, however he might wish to do so, could not resist the demands of the Government, and that in all probability everything which the Air Vice-Marshal had said was strictly true. When I had finished there was a silence of consternation. Then nearly everyone started speaking at once in a hubbub of high and angry voices. Fred made himself heard above the rest. As I remember him he
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