His mind is in the same condition as his
fingers, working back to clods. He will get a rise of one and sixpence
in a year or two, and marry on it and become duller and heavier; and, in
short, the clever ones could already write his epitaph.
* * * * *
'A beautiful morning, Dering.'
'Too much sun, sir. The roses be complaining, and, to make matters
worse, Miss Barbara has been watering of them--in the heat of the day.'
The Colonel is a very gentle knight nowadays. 'Has she? She means well.'
But that is not what is troubling him. He approaches the subject
diffidently. 'Dering, you heard it, didn't you?' He is longing to be
told that Dering heard it.
'What was that, sir?'
'The thunderstorm--early this morning.'
'There was no thunderstorm, sir.'
Dispirited, 'That is what they all say.' The Colonel is too courteous to
contradict any one, but he tries again; there is about him the
insistence of one who knows that he is right. 'It was at four o'clock. I
got up and looked out at the window. The evening primroses were very
beautiful.
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