“All we have lived, worked, hoped for in this parish—­we two, almost alone—­”

“And now,” said the Vicar ruefully, “I am leaving you quite alone.  Yes, you have a right to reproach me. . . .  Old Pritchard, from St Martin’s, will take the duty.  His Vicar will be only too glad to get rid of him.”

“Oh, don’t let us talk of that silly old man!” said Mrs Steele impatiently.  “And as for reproaches, Robert, I have only one for you—­that you did this without consulting me.”

“Yes, I know:  but you see, Agatha—­”

“No, I do not see.”  She faced him, her eyes swimming.  “I might have argued a little—­have cried a little.  But why—­oh, why, Robert?—­did you deny me the pride to say in the end, ’Go, and God bless you’?”

The Recruiting Meeting was held in the Council Schoolroom, on Saturday evening, at 7 o’clock. [Public meetings in Polpier are invariably fixed for Saturday, that being the one week-night when the boats keep home.] Schoolmaster Rounsell and his daughter (back from her holiday) had decorated the room, declining outside assistance.  It was a rule of life with Schoolmaster Rounsell and his daughter to be very stiff against all outside assistance.  They took the line that as State-employed teachers of the young,—­that is to say, Civil Servants,—­they deserved more social respect than Polpier habitually showed them.  In this contention, to be sure, they were wholly right.  Their mistake lay in supposing that in this dear land of ours prejudice can be removed by official decree, or otherwise than by the slow possession of patience, tact, and address.  Mr Rounsell, however, was less stiff than usual, since the Vicar had asked him to second a vote of thanks at the end of the meeting.  He and his daughter spent a great part of the afternoon in arranging the platform and decorating the back wall with a Union Jack, two or three strings of cardpaper-flags that had not seen the light since Coronation Day, and a wall-map of Europe with a legend below it in white calico letters upon red Turkey twill,—­“DO GOOD AND FEAR NOT.”  It had served to decorate many occasions and was as appropriate to this as to any of them.

By 6.45 the room was crowded with an audience numbering two hundred and more.  They sat very quietly in the odour of the evil-smelling oil lamps, expectant of oratory.  For Squire Tresawna (who pleaded an attack of gout as an excuse for not attending) had not only assured the committee of his personal sympathy, but at his own cost had engaged a speaker recommended by a political association (now turned non-political) in London.  There was promise of oratory, and every Cornish audience loves oratory.

In the Squire’s absence Farmer Best took the chair.  Punctually at seven o’clock he mounted the platform, followed by the orator from London (a florid gentleman in a frock-coat and dingy white waistcoat), the Vicar, Mr Hambly, Mr Pamphlett, Dr Mant, and Mr Rounsell.  As they entered, Miss Rounsell, seated at the piano at the far end of the platform, struck the opening chords of “God Save the King.”  It seemed to take the audience by surprise:  but they shuffled to their feet and, after a few bars, sang the anthem very creditably.