It was a quaint, humorous epistle—­the letter of a man who feels quite sure of himself, and yet as she read it through rapidly, there rose before her the writer as he had last appeared in a railing whirlwind of rage and fury, just before leaving Old Place—­he had vowed at the time—­for ever.  She remembered how he had shouted at her, hurling bitter reproaches, telling her she would be sorry one day for having persuaded Betty to give him up.  But though she, Janet Tosswill, had not forgotten, he had evidently made up his mind, the moment he had met with his unexpected and astonishing piece of good luck, to let bygones be bygones.  For, after that first letter to his godson, gifts had come in quick succession to Old Place, curious unexpected, anonymous gifts, but even Dolly had guessed at once from whom they came.

No wonder the younger children were all excited and delighted at the thought of his coming visit!  Radmore was now looked upon as a fairy godfather might have been.  They were too young, too self-absorbed, to realise that these wonderful gifts out of the blue never seemed to wing their way to Betty or Janet.  Yet stop, there had been an exception.  Last Christmas each had received an anonymous fairing—­Betty, a beautiful little watch, set in diamonds, and Janet, a wonderful old lace flounce.  Both registered parcels had come from London, Godfrey Radmore being known at the time to be in Australia.  But neither recipient of the delightful gift had ever cared to wear or use it.

CHAPTER VIII

And meanwhile the man of whom every single human being in Old Place, with the exception of the little village day girl, was thinking this afternoon, was coming ever nearer and nearer to Beechfield in an ecstasy of sentient joy at being “at home” again.

As Radmore motored along the Portsmouth Road through the warmly-beautiful autumn countryside, a feeling of exultation, of intense personal love for, and pride in, the old country, filled his heart.  Why had he stayed in London so long when all this tranquil, appealing loveliness of wood, stream, hill and hollow lay close at hand?  There are folk who deny the charm of Surrey—­by whom this delicious county, with its noble stretches of wild, fragrant uplands, and wide, deep valleys, is dismissed as suburban.  But though they would deny it vehemently, the eyes of such folk are holden.

As he was borne along through the soft, lambent air, everything he passed appealed to his heart and imagination.  Each of the small, yet dignified, eighteenth-century houses, which add such distinction and grace to each Surrey township—­Epsom, Leatherhead, Guildford—­gave him a comfortable feeling of his country’s well-being, of the essential stability of England.  Now and again, in some woodland glade where summer still lingered, he would pass by happy groups engaged in black-berrying; while on the road there waited the charabancs, the motor-cycles, the pony-traps, which had brought them.