At Three Bridges they had lunch, in an old-fashioned hotel called the George.  Muchross cut the sirloin, filling the plates so full of juicy meat that the ladies protested.  Snowdown paid for champagne, and in conjunction with the wine, the indelicate stories which he narrated made some small invasion upon the reserve of the bar-girls; for their admirers did not dare forbid them the wine, and could not prevent them from smiling.  After lunch the gang was photographed in the garden, and Muchross gave the village flautist half a “quid,” making him promise to drink their healths till he was “blind.”

“I never like to leave a place without having done some good,” he shouted, as he scrambled into his seat.

This sentiment was applauded until the sensual torpor of digestion intervened.  The clamour of the coach lapsed into a hush of voices.  The women leaned back, drawing their rugs about their knees, for it was turning chilly, arms were passed round yielding waists, hands lay in digestive poses, and eyes were bathed in deep animal indolences.

Conversation had almost ceased.  The bar-girls had not whispered one single word for more than an hour; Muchross had not shouted for at least twenty minutes; the only interruption that had occurred was an unexpected stopping of the coach, for the off-leader was pulling Dicky so hard that he had to ask Jem to take the ribbons, and now he snoozed in the great whip’s place, seriously incommoding Snowdown with his great weight.  Suddenly awaking to a sense of his responsibility Muchross roared—­

“What about the milk-cans?”

“You’d better be quick,” answered Jem, “we shall be there in five minutes.”

One of the customs of the road was a half-crown lottery, the winning member to be decided by the number of milk-cans outside a certain farm-house.

“Ease off a bit, Jem,” bawled Muchross.  “Damn you! give us time to get the numbers out.”

“It ain’t my fault if you fall asleep.”

“The last stage was five miles this side of Cuckfield, you ought to know the road by this time.  How many are we?”

“Eight,” shouted Dicky, blowing the blatant horn.  “You’re on, Jem, aren’t you?  Number two or three will get it; at this time of the year milk is scarce.  Pass on the hat quick; quick, you devil, pass it on.  What have you got, Kitty?”

“Just like my luck,” cried Muchross; “I’ve got eight.”

“And I’ve seven,” said Snowdown; “never have I won yet.  In the autumn I get sevens and eights, in the summer ones and twos.  Damn!”

“I’ve got five,” said Kitty, “and Mike has got two; always the lucky one.  A lady leaves him four thousand a year, and he comes down here and rooks us.”

The coach swept up a gentle ascent, and Muchross shouted—­

“Two milk-cans!  Hand him over the quid and chuck him out!”

The downs rose, barring the sky; and they passed along the dead level of the weald, leaving Henfield on their right; and when a great piece of Gothic masonry appeared between some trees, Mike told Kitty how it had been once John Norton’s intention to build a monastery.