Once, when they came to such a spot, he, Radmore, called out to his chauffeur to stop.  They were close to the crest of Boxhill, and below them lay spread out what is perhaps the finest, because the richest in human and historic associations, view in Southern England.  As he stood up and gazed down and down and down, to his right he saw what looked from up here such a tiny toylike town, and it recalled suddenly a book he had once read, as one reads a Jules Verne romance, “The Battle of Dorking,” a soldier’s fairy-tale that had come perilously near being a prophecy.

Before Radmore’s eyes—­blotting out the noble, peaceful landscape, rich in storied beauty—­there rose an extraordinarily vivid phantasmagoria of vast masses of armed men in field grey moving across that wide, thickly peopled valley of lovely villages and cosy little towns.  He saw as in a vision the rich stretches of arable land, the now red, brown, and yellow spinneys and clumps of high trees, the meadows dotted with sleek cattle, laid waste—­while sinister columns of flames and massed clouds of smoke rose from each homestead.

“Drive on!” he called out, and the chauffeur was startled by the harsh note in his employer’s generally kindly voice.

On they sped down the great flank of the huge hill, past the hostelry where Nelson bid a last farewell to his Emma, on and on along narrow lanes, and between high hedges starred with autumn flowers.  And then, when in a spot so wild and lonely that it might have been a hundred miles from a town—­though it was only some ten miles from Beechfield—­something went wrong with the engine of the car.

Janet had proposed that tea should be at five o’clock, so as to give the visitor plenty of time to arrive.  But from four onwards, all the younger folk were in a state of excitement and expectation—­Timmy running constantly in and out of the house, rushing to the gate, from whence a long stretch of road could be seen, till his constant gyrations got on his mother’s nerves, and she sharply ordered him to come in and be quiet.

At a quarter to five the telephone bell rang and Jack languidly went to answer it.  Then he came back into the drawing-room.  “Radmore’s had a breakdown,” he said briefly, “he’s afraid he can’t get here till seven.”

Here was a disappointing anti-climax!

“Then we’d better all go and have our tea,” said Timmy sententiously, and everyone felt, in a dispirited way, that, as usual, Timmy had hit the nail on the head.

They all trooped into the dining-room, but Timmy was the only one who did full justice to the cakes and scones which had been made specially in Godfrey Radmore’s honour:  all the others felt cross and disappointed, especially Tom and Rosamund, who had given up going to a tennis-party.