Sandys were the make-weights
of the party, and he was conscious that his own contributions were
wanting in liveliness.
Maud was extraordinarily amused by the bits of mimicry that came
in, because it was so well done that it inspired everyone with the
feeling that mimicry was the one art worth practising; and Mr.
Sandys himself launched into dialect stories, in which Somersetshire
rustics began by saying, "Hoots, mon!" and ended by saying, "The
ould divil hissilf."
After luncheon it became clear that Jack had given up the afternoon
as a bad job, and suggested that they should all go down to the
river. The rowing man excused himself, and Howard followed his
example, pleading occupation of a vague kind. Mr. Sandys was
enchanted at the prospect, and they went off in the charge of
Guthrie, who was free, promising to return and have tea in his
rooms. Guthrie, who was a friend of Howard's, included him in the
invitation, but Howard said that he could not promise, but would
look in if he could.
As a matter of fact, he went out for a lonely walk, ashamed of
himself for his stupidity. He could not put himself in the
position, he dismally thought, of competing for Maud's attention.
He walked off round by Madingley, hardly aware of what road he was
taking. By the little chalk-pit just outside the village a rustic
pair, a boy and girl, stood sheepishly clasped in a dull and silent
embrace. Howard, to whom public exhibitions of emotion were
distasteful, walked swiftly by with averted eyes, when suddenly a
poignant thought came on him, causing him to redden up to the roots
of his hair, and walk faster than ever.
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