At a bend of the road he caught a last
glimpse of the farm; the old gabled roofs and thatched
barns, the straggling orchard, and the medlar tree, with its
wooden seat, stood out with an almost spectral clearness in
the early morning light, and over it all brooded that air of
magic possession which Crefton had once mistaken for peace.
The bustle and roar of Paddington Station smote on his
ears with a welcome protective greeting.
``Very bad for our nerves, all this rush and hurry,'' said
a fellow-traveller; ``give me the peace and quiet of the
country.''
Crefton mentally surrendered his share of the desired
commodity. A crowded, brilliantly over-lighted music-hall,
where an exuberant rendering of ``1812'' was being given by
a strenuous orchestra, came nearest to his ideal of a nerve
sedative.
THE TALKING-OUT OF TARRINGTON
``Heavens!'' exclaimed the aunt of Clovis, ``here's some
one I know bearing down on us. I can't remember his name,
but he lunched with us once in Town. Tarrington---yes,
that's it. He's heard of the picnic I'm giving for the
Princess, and he'll cling to me like a lifebelt till I give
him an invitation; then he'll ask if he may bring all his
wives and mothers and sisters with him.
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