“Not until half past nine because Jimmy has his Bible class tonight.”  Jimmy was Mr. Stafford:  and perhaps a purist might have objected that Mrs. Clowes and Yvonne Bendish had not done all they might have done to form Isabel’s manners.  “I’m so sorry, darling,” she continued, preparing to leap to her feet.  “Shall I get you a biscuit?  There are oatmeals in the sideboard, the kind you like, I won’t be a minute—­”

“Thanks very much, I’d rather wait.  Did you see Mrs. Clowes today?  Clowes said she was at the Castle.”

“So she was, sitting with Mrs. Morley in an angelic striped cotton.  Mrs. Morley was in mauve ninon and a Gainsborough hat.  Yvonne says Mr. Morley is a Jew and made his money in I. D. B.’s, which I suppose are some sort of stocks?” Neither of her brothers offered to enlighten her, Rowsley because he was feeling indolent, Val because he never said an unkind word to any one.  Isabel, who was enamoured of her own voice flowed on with little delay:  “If he really is a Jew, I can’t think how she could marry him; I wouldn’t.  Mrs. Morley can’t be very happy or Laura wouldn’t go and talk to her.  Laura is so sweet, she always sits with people that other people run away from.  Oh Val, did Major Clowes tell you their news?” Isabel might refer to her father as Jimmy and to Rowsley’s commander as the Old Man, but she rarely failed to give Bernard Clowes his correct prefix.

“No—­is there any?”

“Only that they have some one coming to stay with them.  Won’t he have a deadly time?” Isabel glanced from Val to Rowsley in the certainty of a common response.  “Imagine staying at Wanhope!  However, he invited himself, so it’s at his own risk.  Perhaps he’s embarrassed like you, Rose, and wants Laura to feed him.  It’s rather fun for Laura, though—­that is, it will be, if Major Clowes isn’t too hopeless.”

Strange freemasonry of the generations!  Mr. Stafford’s children loved him dearly and he was wont to say that there were no secrets at the vicarage, yet they lived in a conspiracy of silence, and even Val, who was mentally nearer to his father’s age, would have been loth to let Mr. Stafford know as much as Isabel knew about Wanhope.  It was assumed that Val’s job was the very job Val wanted.  Mr. Stafford had indeed a suspicion that it was not all plain sailing:  Bernard Clowes retained just so much of the decently bred man as to be courteous to his wife before a mere acquaintance, but the vicar came and went at odd hours, and he observed now and then vague intimations—­undertones from Bernard himself, an uncontrollable shrinking on Laura’s part, an occasional hesitation or reluctance in Val—­which hinted at flying storms.  But Val, the father supposed, could make allowance for a cripple:  Bernard was so much to be pitied that no man would resent an occasional burst of temper!  And there his children left him.  The younger generation can trust one another not to interfere, but when the seniors strike in, with their cut and dry precedents and rule of thumb moralities, who knows what mischief may follow?  Elder people are so indiscreet!