Realising that the strangers must be very near the front door by now, he edged towards the door of the drawing-room, meaning to make a bolt for it into what was still called the schoolroom.  He did not wish to be caught by himself in the drawing-room.  But he was caught, for the door suddenly opened, and his mother came in.

Janet Tosswill “paid for dressing” as the old saying is.  She looked charming to-night, in a rather bright blue evening dress, and Timmy, slipping his hand into hers, said softly:  “You do look nice, Mum.”

She smiled, touched and pleased, for her child was not given to compliments.  Also, she had told herself, when glancing at her slim, active figure in the early Victorian cheval glass which had belonged to her husband’s mother, that this blue dress was really very old-fashioned, and would probably appear so to Mrs. Crofton.

In view of Timmy’s pleasant compliment, she did not like to ask him if he had washed his hands and brushed his hair.  She could only hope for the best:  “I hope we shall like Mrs. Crofton,” she said meditatively.  “You know she’s a friend of your godfather, my dear.”

“Yes, I know that,” he announced, in rather an odd voice, and she felt just a little surprised.  How did Timmy know that?  Then she remembered her husband had read aloud Mrs. Crofton’s pretty, well-turned letter—­the letter which explained that the writer was looking out for a country house, and would like to find one at Beechfield if possible, as her friend, Godfrey Radmore, had described it as being the most beautiful village in England.

Timmy let go his mother’s hand—­then he looked searchingly into her face:  “Do you suppose,” he asked, “that my godfather is in love with Mrs. Crofton?”

She was taken aback, and yes, shocked, by the question:  “Of course not.  Whatever put such an extraordinary idea into your head, Timmy?”

The words had hardly left her lips when the door opened, and the village girl, who was staying on for two hours beyond her usual time because of this visitor, announced in a breathless voice:—­“Mrs. Crofton, ma’am.”

Timmy saw at once that the visitor was the young lady he had seen walking up the avenue.  Then the old gentleman and his dog—­the dog which was so extraordinarily like Flick—­had only brought her as far as the door.  And then, while his mother was shaking hands with Mrs. Crofton, and shepherding her towards the sofa, Timmy managed to have a good, long look at the new tenant of The Trellis House.

Grudgingly he admitted to himself that she was what most people—­such people, for instance, as Rosamund and Betty—­would call “very pretty.”

Mrs. Crofton had a small three-cornered face, a ridiculously little, babyish mouth, and a great deal of dark, curly hair which matched in a queer kind of way the color of her big, pathetic-looking eyes.  Timmy told himself at once that he did not like her—­that she looked “a muff”.  It distressed him to think that his hero should be a friend of this weak-looking, sly little thing—­for so he uncompromisingly described Enid Crofton to himself.