Dr. Pawley had introduced both Brian and Cicely to this wicked world. Failing in health and energy, he carried with him a kind, whimsical face, slightly sunk between high, narrow shoulders. Chronic sciatica made him limp a little. In the pockets of his ill-fitting rusty coat he carried sugar-plums which he popped deftly into the mouths of howling children. From this it may be inferred that he was not an up-to-date practitioner, and perhaps the more beloved in Upworthy on that account. An old bachelor of small independent means, Lady Selina had long ago accepted him as a friend and counsellor. He dined at the Manor constantly in those remote days when medical attendants were rarely offered luncheon. County magnates were less supercilious when they remarked the esteem which Dr. Pawley had inspired in Henry Chandos and his wife. And ultimately they, too, accepted him and entertained him, almost regarding him as one of themselves. Pawley himself knew that he owed his somewhat unique position in the county to Lady Selina. Unbefriended by her, he would have remained obscure and ignored by the quality. She gave him the opportunity which he had seized. After that he had held his own as a talker and a listener. And he scorned gossip, although he might swallow it with a faint smile curving his thin, sensitive lips.

Cicely greeted him warmly.

“How nice of you to come to our tea-fight.”

“How are you, Pawley?” asked the parson.

“I’m not pulling my weight, Goodrich. People make cheap jokes about doctors and a sickly season, but I want a partner and a holiday, and I mean to have both.”

He sat down near Cicely, who said hastily:

“Why is there always sickness in Upworthy at midsummer?”

Some inflection in her young voice challenged attention. Goodrich blinked; Pawley thought to himself: “At last, the inevitable question——!” Temptation assailed him to evade it. And such evasion might be justified by his sense of loyalty and gratitude to Lady Selina. Nevertheless some truth-compelling quality in her glance made him answer simply:

“Our people aren’t too healthy, my dear.”

“Why—why?”

“Partly a matter of drainage; wages are low. That means insufficient nutrition, eh, Goodrich?”

“Quite so; quite so.”

Cicely turned to Brian, who was again at the window, watching the arriving villagers.

“Brian, do you hear? Dr. Pawley says the village drains are wrong.”

Brian laughed carelessly.

“Drains? There aren’t any. Mother says open drainage is the best in villages. She knows.”

“Does she?” Once more her eyes seemed to fix themselves inexorably upon Pawley’s pale face. “Does Mother really know, Dr. Pawley? Has she ever taken expert advice, for instance?”

“As to that, my dear child, the fact is we are comfortably antediluvian.”

Cicely digested this, turning troubled orbs from doctor to parson, sensible of tension, and—with the inherited instincts of a fox-hunter—keenly aware that her quarry was escaping. She said with something of her mother’s air of finality:

“Are we? Then the deluge is coming.” In a different voice, charmingly persuasive, she went on: “And now, dear doctor, I want to talk to you about something else of tremendous importance.”

“How you frighten me!”

She smiled at him.

“You’re a rare favourite with Mother. You and—and Mr. Goodrich”—the parson was included as a happy after-thought—“are levers.”

“Levers? Bless me!”

“Yes. I always think of Mother as a sort of fixed star, but you two can move her. And your influence with her is the greater because you hardly ever exercise it.”

The parson accepted this as an indictment, and looked uneasy. Pawley’s eyes twinkled, as the girl continued:

“Mother is thinking of evicting the Extons.”

Pawley’s eyes stopped twinkling.

“Bless my soul!”

“Brian and I are dead against it, aren’t we, Brian?”

Again the young man laughed, not heartlessly. Cicely, under the stress of excitement, amused him. And excitement became her. She looked—topping. At the same time she was riding for a fall. He must shout out: “’Ware wire!” He did so.

“This isn’t our business, Cis.”

“But it is. Eventually, I suppose, Upworthy will go to you.”

“Oh no, not necessarily. Mother has a power of appointment. If I ran rusty, b’Jove, Mother might feel it her duty to leave Upworthy to George Chandos.”

“You selfish pig——!”

“Children, my dear children!” The parson lifted his hand. Cicely said crossly:

“You’re all sitting on the fence.”

“We’re men of peace,” murmured the parson.

Instantly Cicely became penitent. “I’m ever so sorry. Doctor, can you give me something not too nasty to cure a quick temper?”

Pawley chuckled.

“There’s no state of savage irritation which can’t be mitigated by the exhibition of a little calomel.”

“Do you take that?”

“No. In my case it isn’t necessary. Now, what do you want a tired old man to do?”

Cicely replied promptly:

“Pull the popularity stop.”

“Eh?”

“You jolly well know what I mean. You’re much cleverer than you look, dear doctor.”

As she spoke Lady Selina majestically entered the room, pausing in horror as Cicely’s clear tones penetrated her ears and her understanding.

“My darling child! What are you saying to Dr. Pawley?”

“He is, Mums. Every doctor ought to be. To look clever is rather alarming. To be clever and not look it is so very reassuring.”

Lady Selina held out her hand to her old friend, saying graciously:

“Very glad to see you, doctor. Brian, you can take the cloaks on to the lawn.”

“Let me help you,” said the parson.

The two men disappeared with arms full of red flannel cloaks. Cicely, standing dose to Pawley, laughed.

“Why do you laugh, child?” asked Lady Selina.

“Only because Mr. Goodrich is a man of peace.” She nudged Pawley, much to her mother’s astonishment. “Why are you nudging Dr. Pawley?”

“Was I? Well, yes, I was. He’s a man of peace, too. I want him to say something before we go on to the lawn.”

“Oh! You want him to say something which apparently can’t be said without nudging. What is it?”

Cicely slipped to her mother’s side, taking her arm and pressing it coaxingly.

“Dr. Pawley knows how worry affects you, don’t you, doctor?”

“Worry affects all of us.”

Lady Selina’s face relaxed beneath the pressure of Cicely’s arm.

“But I’m not worrying, you silly child.”

“Oh, Mother——! Not worrying about the poor Extons? You said you were just now.”

“For the moment I had forgotten the Extons. Yes, yes, I must take action at once, because to-morrow is Midsummer Day.”

She moved, like a line-of-battle ship, to her desk, and picked up an Estate ledger. Cicely made a sign to Pawley, who shook his head dubiously. Lady Selina, after a pause, said austerely:

“It’s as I thought. I must give Ephraim Exton a year’s notice from to-morrow, or lose a quarter. Cicely, send Agatha Farleigh to me. She’s on the lawn.”

Agatha was Lady Selina’s typist, and a protÉgÉe, a daughter of the village, who, by virtue of a lively intelligence, had been taught typewriting and stenography at the expense of the lady of the manor.

Cicely refused to budge, exclaiming loudly:

“If you turn out that old man, Mums, I don’t want to be here next November.”

“Next November?”

“You’ll be burnt in effigy on the village green. Guy Fawkes’ Day!”

“Rubbish! Run away and send Agatha to me.”

Cicely, in desperation, turned to Dr. Pawley.

“Doctor, have you nothing to say?”

Pawley sighed, shrugging his shoulders. In a tired voice, he said quietly:

“The Extons are much liked, Lady Selina.”

Lady Selina closed the Estate ledger, standing very erect, unconsciously assuming the pose of her late husband. But she spoke pleasantly, suppressing a rising exasperation. Pawley’s pale face affected her. And he had grown old in her service, a loyal friend. Certainly she owed him consideration. After tea, she might talk with him—alone.

“Well, well, the letter can be written any time before eight. I shall give my dear people their tea.” She moved slowly to the open window, turning on the threshold, smiling confidently. “I am not afraid of becoming unpopular with them.”

As she swept out, Cicely whispered to Pawley:

“All is well. She won’t write the letter. Ah, doctor, you didn’t half back me up.”

He took both her hands, looking gravely into her eager face.

“I am an old man, my dear, and I am devoted to your mother. Shall we follow her on to the lawn?”