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Updated: May 10, 2025
The music grew fainter behind them. Some of the higher notes faded out altogether. Jenny's drumming and the steady sawing of the bass throbbed on, tuneless and meaningless in their ears. Henry Wimbush halted.
"Glad to hear what?" asked Jenny, emerging suddenly from her private interior world like a cuckoo from a clock. She received an explanation, smiled, nodded, cuckooed at last "I see," and popped back, clapping shut the door behind her. Dinner was eaten; the party had adjourned to the drawing-room. "Now," said Henry Wimbush, pulling up a chair to the lamp.
But Denis sat apart; he alone lacked his complementary opposite. They were all coupled but he; all but he... Somebody touched him on the shoulder and he looked up. It was Henry Wimbush. "I never showed you our oaken drainpipes," he said. "Some of the ones we dug up are lying quite close to here. Would you like to come and see them?" Denis got up, and they walked off together into the darkness.
"I think I shall go and bathe," said Anne. "It's so hot." The opportunity had passed. Mr. Wimbush had taken them to see the sights of the Home Farm, and now they were standing, all six of them Henry Wimbush, Mr. Scogan, Denis, Gombauld, Anne, and Mary by the low wall of the piggery, looking into one of the styes. "This is a good sow," said Henry Wimbush. "She had a litter of fourteen. "Fourteen?"
He's perpetually detailed for this job, and he tells me it has a peculiarly exhausting effect. Every one's beginning at the end of two days to sidle obsequiously away from her, and Mrs. Wimbush pushes him again and again into the breach. None of the uses I have yet seen him put to infuriate me quite so much.
"Is anyone coming to church with me this morning?" asked Henry Wimbush. No one responded. He baited his bare invitation. "I read the lessons, you know. And there's Mr. Bodiham. His sermons are sometimes worth hearing." "Thank you, thank you," said Mr. Barbecue-Smith. "I for one prefer to worship in the infinite church of Nature. How does our Shakespeare put it?
And indeed there were moments when she seemed nothing more than a doll; when the oval face, with its long-lashed, pale blue eyes, expressed nothing; when it was no more than a lazy mask of wax. She was Henry Wimbush's own niece; that bowler-like countenance was one of the Wimbush heirlooms; it ran in the family, appearing in its female members as a blank doll-face.
A match between the Spurs and the Villa entailed a conflict in the heavens so vast and so complicated that it was not to be wondered at if she sometimes made a mistake about the outcome. "Such a pity you don't believe in these things, Denis, such a pity," said Mrs. Wimbush in her deep, distinct voice. "I can't say I feel it so." "Ah, that's because you don't know what it's like to have faith.
Gombauld, passionate and vivacious, was its centre. The others stood round, listening Henry Wimbush, calm and polite beneath his grey bowler; Mary, with parted lips and eyes that shone with the indignation of a convinced birth-controller. Anne looked on through half-shut eyes, smiling; and beside her stood Mr.
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