But no:  the London post-mark bore date “Aug. 1.”  The letter had been received and delivered at Polpier on the 2nd, and had been lying in the bank letter-box for two whole days.  He broke the seal in some trepidation:  for he had spent the last sixty hours or so of national emergency on a visit with Mrs Pamphlett to her brother-in-law, a well-to-do farmer, who dwelt some twelve miles inland.  Here Mr Pamphlett, after punctual and ample meals, had gently stimulated digestion with hot brandy-and-water (which never comes amiss, even in August, if you happen to be connected with farming and have duly kept the Sabbath), and had sat with one leg crossed over the other, exchanging—­rather by his composed bearing than in actual words—­ confidence in Britain’s financial stability against confidence in her agriculture.  His presence had somewhat eased a trying situation at Lawhilly Farm, where his young fool of a nephew—­an only son, too—­ fired by the war, had gone so far as to distress his parents with talk of enlisting.

“Business as usual!” had been Mr Pamphlett’s advice to the young man.  “There was, for a day or two—­I won’t deny it—­a certain—­er—­ tendency to what I may call nervousness in the City.  Can we wonder at it, holding as we do so many—­er—­threads?” Mr Pamphlett held up his two hands, and spread them as though they contained a skein of wool to be unwound.  “But the Chancellor of the Exchequer took steps.  Opposed as I am in a general way to the present Government, I am free to admit that, at this juncture, the Chancellor of the Exchequer realised his responsibilities and—­er—­took steps.  Markets may—­er—­ fluctuate for some weeks to come—­may, as I would put it, exhibit a certain amount of—­er—­unsteadiness.  But we shall tide that over, easily—­as I am advised, quite easily.  Great Britain’s credit is solid; that’s the word, solid:  and if that—­er—­solidarity holds true of our monetary system with”—­here Mr Pamphlett expanded and contracted his fingers as if gathering gossamers—­“its delicate and far-reaching complexities. . .  That was an excellent duck, James,” said he, turning to his brother-in-law.  “I don’t remember when I’ve tasted a better.”

“Maria believes in basting, I thank God,” said his brother-in-law, Farmer Pearce acknowledging the compliment. “’Tis a more enterprisin’ life you lead by the sea, if your business calls you that way.  You pick up more money—­which is everything in these days—­and you see the ships and yachts going to and fro, and so forth.  But you can’t breed ducks for table.  Once they get nigh to tidal water, though it be but to the head of a creek, the flesh turns fishy, and you can’t prevent it.  We must set it down to Natur’, I suppose.  But inland ducks for me!”

“Maria has a great gift with the stuffing, too. . . .  You’re spoilt, Ebenezer—­and so too is Obed here—­up in this fat of the land, though you don’t know it.  Eh?” said Mr Pamphlett sharply as his nephew Obed, who had been sitting by and listening sulkily, made an impatient movement,—­“But as I was going on to say, if we, that hold (as I may put it) the threads of commerce in these times, believe in sitting solid, why surely the same applies—­only more so—­to agriculture.”