After shouting again, several times, it became manifest that he had attracted the attention of two willing but deliberate labouring men.  They emerged slowly, first as attentive heads, from the landscape.  With their assistance the car was restored to the road again.  Mr. Direck assisted manfully, and noted the respect that was given to Mr. Britling and the shillings that fell to the men, with an intelligent detachment.  They touched their hats, they called Mr. Britling “Sir.”  They examined the car distantly but kindly.  “Ain’t ’urt ’e, not a bit ’e ain’t, not really,” said one encouragingly.  And indeed except for a slight crumpling of the mud-guard and the detachment of the wire of one of the headlights the automobile was uninjured.  Mr. Britling resumed his seat; Mr. Direck gravely and in silence got up beside him.  They started with the usual convulsion, as though something had pricked the vehicle unexpectedly and shamefully behind.  And from this point Mr. Britling, driving with meticulous care, got home without further mishap, excepting only that he scraped off some of the metal edge of his footboard against the gate-post of his very agreeable garden.

His family welcomed his safe return, visitor and all, with undisguised relief and admiration.  A small boy appeared at the corner of the house, and then disappeared hastily again.  “Daddy’s got back all right at last,” they heard him shouting to unseen hearers.

Section 8

Mr. Direck, though he was a little incommoded by the suppression of his story about Robinson—­for when he had begun a thing he liked to finish it—­found Mr. Britling’s household at once thoroughly British, quite un-American and a little difficult to follow.  It had a quality that at first he could not define at all.  Compared with anything he had ever seen in his life before it struck him as being—­he found the word at last—­sketchy.  For instance, he was introduced to nobody except his hostess, and she was indicated to him by a mere wave of Mr. Britling’s hand.  “That’s Edith,” he said, and returned at once to his car to put it away.  Mrs. Britling was a tall, freckled woman with pretty bright brown hair and preoccupied brown eyes.  She welcomed him with a handshake, and then a wonderful English parlourmaid—­she at least was according to expectations—­took his grip-sack and guided him to his room.  “Lunch, sir,” she said, “is outside,” and closed the door and left him to that and a towel-covered can of hot water.

It was a square-looking old red-brick house he had come to, very handsome in a simple Georgian fashion, with a broad lawn before it and great blue cedar trees, and a drive that came frankly up to the front door and then went off with Mr. Britling and the car round to unknown regions at the back.  The centre of the house was a big airy hall, oak-panelled, warmed in winter only by one large fireplace and abounding in doors which he knew opened into the square separate