Centenary at Jalna. Mazo de la Roche

the little one a Coke, Patience,” said Bell kindly. He knew nothing of children but supposed it was the thing to do.

      Renny intervened. “No — never a Coke. My brother Piers said, when Mary arrived, she was never to see a comic or taste a Coke, and he’s stuck to it.”

      “Well, I’m awfully glad you dropped in,” said Bell, wistfully thinking of his work upstairs.

      “We are on a tour, Mary and I, of the family houses.” Renny put an arm about Mary and went on to inform her, “This house, as you know, was once lived in by people who bred foxes.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, thinking of those people.

      “Funny,” said Patience, “how the name stuck to it.”

      “No family has lived very long in this house,” continued Renny, instructing Mary as though in a matter of importance, “but all have been connected more or less closely with Jalna.”

      “Humphrey and I hope to live here a long while,” said Patience.

      “Of course you will,” said Renny cheerfully. He glanced at his wristwatch. “Well, Mary and I must be moving on if we are to complete the tour before lunch.”

      When the Bells were left alone together Patience took his hand and led him back upstairs to his study.

      “Poor dear,” she said tenderly. “Poor, poor dear! What an interruption! Your day’s work will be ruined, I’m afraid. I try so hard to protect you,” she mourned.

      He could not tell her that she tried too hard, that all he wanted was to be let alone.

      He was a source of wonder to her. She would raise herself on her elbow in bed and brood over his face, as he slept, in mingled curiosity and delight. She had been brought up surrounded by males but they were uncles and cousins. Humphrey was different. He was an enigma. When she heard, on the radio, something he had written, she was almost overcome by pride and her desire to protect him from intrusions on his work. But Humphrey, hearing it broadcast, was ashamed to acknowledge that it was his. Still more ashamed was he of his lack of appreciation for her care of him, his longing to be not fussed over.

      Now he heard her go slowly down the stairs and he had a sudden fear lest she should fall. He ran to the top of the stairs and called, “Be careful, dear!”

      She looked over her shoulder. “Careful of what?”

      “Of falling.”

      “You dear old silly,” she said and plodded on down the stairs.

      He returned to his writing.

      Hand in hand Renny and Mary passed through a gathering of noble oaks, embosomed by evergreens, crossed a stile and were on a new path across a field.

      “That is a nice little house,” said Mary, “where Patience and Humphrey live.”

      “Yes, it’s not a bad little house.”

      “Who owns it?”

      “I do. Why do you ask?”

      “Daddy says they should pay more rent.”

      “Well, I like that.”

      “Then why don’t you ask for more, Mummy says.”

      “Mary, you tell your parents that when I want their advice I’ll ask for it.”

      “Yes, Uncle Renny.” She felt rebuffed. She had tried grown-up conversation on him and it had failed. For a short space she plodded beside him in silence. She rather wished she had not come, and she was beginning to get hungry.

      “Where are we going now?” she asked.

      He stopped stock-still to say, “Do you mean to tell me you don’t know?”

      She hastened to say, “It’s Vaughanlands, where Uncle Finch lives.”

      As they drew near the house that was built in a hollow, Mary timidly asked, “Do you own this too?”

      Gazing at it without admiration he replied, “God forbid.”

      “God forbids lots of things, doesn’t He?” said Mary.

      “What I mean is that I don’t like the style of this house — its architecture. It’s a new house, built to take the place of a fine old house that once stood here. It was burnt to the ground — do you remember?”

      “Oh, yes, and Uncle Finch built this new one. It’s pretty.” She saw the large picture window in the living room and, looking out of it, a woman wearing a white pullover.

      “That’s Sylvia,” said Mary. “Must we go in?”

      She was shy, but Sylvia Whiteoak came out to meet them. Mary had a strange feeling, an uncomfortable feeling about this new wife of Finch’s, possibly because she herself was so patently shy. Also she had heard it said that Sylvia had once suffered a “bad nervous breakdown.” Mary did not at all like the thought of that. It was mysterious, and Mary half-expected to see Sylvia come to pieces before her very eyes. Also Mary was becoming colder and hungrier. Much as she liked to be with Renny, she almost wished the tour were over.

      He was telling Sylvia about it. “You are the third on our list,” he was saying. “I picked Mary up at her own home. First we visited Jalna. Next the Fox Farm.”

      “How are Humphrey and Patience?” said Sylvia. “I like them both so much.”

      Even that simple remark made Sylvia seem strange to Mary. You did not say you liked or disliked anybody in the family. They were a part of it, so you neither liked nor disliked them. They were just there.

      “You are the third on our list,” repeated Renny, not noticing her remark. “After you we shall call at the Rectory — then to Piers’s in time for Mary’s lunch.” Mary wondered if that time would ever come. Her little cold hand lay acquiescent in Renny’s. She curled and uncurled her toes against the damp sodden soles of her shoes.

      “How interesting,” said Sylvia in her pleasant Irish voice. “But what is the object of the tour?”

      “It’s to make Mary conscious of the connection — the family bond that — well, you know what I mean. She goes to each of our houses in turn. She sees some of the family in every one of them. It gives her a feeling of what we are to each other.”

      For the first time Mary spoke up. “It’s a tour,” she said.

      “Now I understand,” said Sylvia, “and I’m proud to be included, even though Finch is not here. Won’t you come in and have a drink? I can make a quite good cocktail.”

      Renny looked at his wristwatch. “It’s half-past eleven. Too early for a cocktail. But I shouldn’t mind a small glass of sherry, if you have it.”

      Inside the music room that was dominated by the concert grand piano, Sylvia brought sherry in a plum-coloured glass decanter. The window was so large that the newly awakened trees crowded almost into the room. Mary saw how one maple tree had young green leaves and a kind of diminutive bloom, while the tender leaves of another were of a strange brownish shade, but in time they would be green.

      Sylvia was holding a box of chocolates in front of Mary. She took one but, when she bit into it, discovered that the filling was marzipan. This she disliked above all flavours. It made her feel positively ill, yet she had to swallow the morsel she had bitten off.

      “I had a letter from Finch this morning,” Sylvia was saying. “His tour is nearly over and I’m sure he will be thankful. These tours are so tiring!”

      They are indeed, thought Mary. She too would be thankful when her tour was over. She kept the sweet hidden in her hand. She could feel her palm getting sticky from the melted chocolate. She wondered what she could do to be rid of it.

      “Do have another,” Sylvia was urging her.

      “No, thank you.”

      “But