class could accomplish. It was truly disgraceful that Gloria Curdle, at the great age of six, was still unable to tie a bow!
'Which reminds me,'said Miss Fogerty to herself. 'Tears or no tears, that child's tin camel must be removed from the Thrush Green model. Looming over the church spire is bad enough, in all conscience, but having an Asiatic creature like that among the Cotswold scenery just Will Not Do!'
Firmly she plucked the offending beast from its alien pastures and put it safely into her sagging cardigan pocket.
Across the green the little boy was jumping rhythmically. Good co-ordination, noted Miss Fogerty approvingly, and plenty of spring.
'I wonder if there are any more children?' speculated Miss Fogerty. A tugging at her skirt nearly precipitated her into the sand-tray.
'Child,' cried Miss Fogerty, with unusual sharpness. 'Don't pull people about in that rude fashion.'
'I can't wait,' said the child, with simple candour.
'Be quick then,' responded Miss Fogerty automatically, returning reluctantly to her duties, with a last glance at Joe Bush's retreating back.
'She's back again,' announced Betty Bell to her employer Harold Shoosmith.
Harold Shoosmith was a comparative newcomer himself to Thrush Green, having come to live there on his retirement from business in Africa two or three years earlier. Tall, spare and handsome ... and, best of all, a bachelor ... he was welcomed warmly by the community.
It had been his idea to honour one of Thrush Green's famous sons, the missionary Nathaniel Patten, and the splendid statue of their nineteenth century hero now graced the green.
The fact that Harold was happy to take part in village affairs, and had the leisure to do so, meant that he was on a dozen or more local committees. At this moment he was immersed in the Thrush Green Entertainments Club's accounts. He looked up from his desk. He had long since given up remonstrating with his slap-dash help about bursting into occupied rooms. If Betty Bell held a duster in her hand, she looked upon it as a passport to free passage anywhere in the house, the bathroom included. Early in their acquaintance she had bounced in to encounter her employer stark naked, except for an inadequate face flannel, but had not been a whit abashed. It was Harold Shoosmith who suffered from shock. After that, he prudently locked the door when at his ablutions.
'Who's back?' he asked apprehensively. Ella Bembridge, whom he found most trying, had just left him after delivering the parish magazine, and he feared her return.
'That new party,' responded Betty, flicking an African carving, knocking it from its shelf and catching it adroitly, all in a second. Harold, wincing, could not help admiring her deftness. Practice, he supposed, resignedly.
'Her that's coming to Tullivers,' continued Betty, attacking a small enamelled clock mercilessly. 'Got a young man with her this time,' she added archly.
'Husband, I expect,' said Harold, returning to his accounts.
'What! That age?' cried Betty, giggling at the success of her subtlety. 'He ain't no more'n six, I'll lay.'
She fell energetically upon a window sill. A dozing fly burst into a frenzy of buzzing as it tried to escape from her onslaught.
'If you was to go out the front and down to the gate you'd get a good look at her,' advised Betty. 'She's hanging about for someone. Joe Bush, I expect. That place'll need a proper going-over before it's fit to live in.'
'I shouldn't dream of staring at the lady,' said Harold sternly. 'And, in any case, I think you are taking a lot for granted. No one knows if she proposes to buy Tullivers. If she does, then we shall call in the usual way.'
Betty Bell was not affected by the touch of frost in Harold's manner. Hoity-toity was her only silent comment, as she gave a final drubbing to the window sill.
'Wantcher desk done?' she asked cheerfully.
'No thanks,' replied Harold shortly. 'I want to work on it.'
'Okay, okay!' replied his daily help. 'I'll go
'Which reminds me,'said Miss Fogerty to herself. 'Tears or no tears, that child's tin camel must be removed from the Thrush Green model. Looming over the church spire is bad enough, in all conscience, but having an Asiatic creature like that among the Cotswold scenery just Will Not Do!'
Firmly she plucked the offending beast from its alien pastures and put it safely into her sagging cardigan pocket.
Across the green the little boy was jumping rhythmically. Good co-ordination, noted Miss Fogerty approvingly, and plenty of spring.
'I wonder if there are any more children?' speculated Miss Fogerty. A tugging at her skirt nearly precipitated her into the sand-tray.
'Child,' cried Miss Fogerty, with unusual sharpness. 'Don't pull people about in that rude fashion.'
'I can't wait,' said the child, with simple candour.
'Be quick then,' responded Miss Fogerty automatically, returning reluctantly to her duties, with a last glance at Joe Bush's retreating back.
'She's back again,' announced Betty Bell to her employer Harold Shoosmith.
Harold Shoosmith was a comparative newcomer himself to Thrush Green, having come to live there on his retirement from business in Africa two or three years earlier. Tall, spare and handsome ... and, best of all, a bachelor ... he was welcomed warmly by the community.
It had been his idea to honour one of Thrush Green's famous sons, the missionary Nathaniel Patten, and the splendid statue of their nineteenth century hero now graced the green.
The fact that Harold was happy to take part in village affairs, and had the leisure to do so, meant that he was on a dozen or more local committees. At this moment he was immersed in the Thrush Green Entertainments Club's accounts. He looked up from his desk. He had long since given up remonstrating with his slap-dash help about bursting into occupied rooms. If Betty Bell held a duster in her hand, she looked upon it as a passport to free passage anywhere in the house, the bathroom included. Early in their acquaintance she had bounced in to encounter her employer stark naked, except for an inadequate face flannel, but had not been a whit abashed. It was Harold Shoosmith who suffered from shock. After that, he prudently locked the door when at his ablutions.
'Who's back?' he asked apprehensively. Ella Bembridge, whom he found most trying, had just left him after delivering the parish magazine, and he feared her return.
'That new party,' responded Betty, flicking an African carving, knocking it from its shelf and catching it adroitly, all in a second. Harold, wincing, could not help admiring her deftness. Practice, he supposed, resignedly.
'Her that's coming to Tullivers,' continued Betty, attacking a small enamelled clock mercilessly. 'Got a young man with her this time,' she added archly.
'Husband, I expect,' said Harold, returning to his accounts.
'What! That age?' cried Betty, giggling at the success of her subtlety. 'He ain't no more'n six, I'll lay.'
She fell energetically upon a window sill. A dozing fly burst into a frenzy of buzzing as it tried to escape from her onslaught.
'If you was to go out the front and down to the gate you'd get a good look at her,' advised Betty. 'She's hanging about for someone. Joe Bush, I expect. That place'll need a proper going-over before it's fit to live in.'
'I shouldn't dream of staring at the lady,' said Harold sternly. 'And, in any case, I think you are taking a lot for granted. No one knows if she proposes to buy Tullivers. If she does, then we shall call in the usual way.'
Betty Bell was not affected by the touch of frost in Harold's manner. Hoity-toity was her only silent comment, as she gave a final drubbing to the window sill.
'Wantcher desk done?' she asked cheerfully.
'No thanks,' replied Harold shortly. 'I want to work on it.'
'Okay, okay!' replied his daily help. 'I'll go
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