Janet admitted to herself that they did owe Mrs. Crofton some civility.  If the thing had to be done, it might as well be done at once, and so, when Rosamund had reluctantly gone upstairs to do her share of the household work, his mother beckoned Timmy into the drawing-room, and told him that she would have a note ready for him to take to The Trellis House in a few minutes.

“Oh, Mum, do let Jack take it!” the boy exclaimed.  “I can’t go to The Trellis House with Flick, and it’s such a bore to shut him up.”

“Why can’t Flick go with you?”

“Mum!  Don’t you remember?  Mrs. Crofton is terrified of dogs.  Do let Jack take it!”

“But are you sure Jack is going there this morning?” she asked, and then she remembered Miss Pendarth’s ill-natured remark.

“He goes there every morning,” said Timmy positively, “and this morning he’s going there extra early, as he’s lending Mrs. Crofton our best preserving pan.  She wants to make some blackberry jam.”

And then there occurred one of those odd incidents which were always happening in connection with Timmy and with which his mother never knew quite how to deal.  He screwed up his queer little face for a moment, shaded his eyes with his hand, and said quietly:  “I think Jack is just starting down the drive now.  You’ll catch him if you’ll open the window and shout to him, Mum—­it’s no good my going after him—­he wouldn’t come back for me.”

Janet Tosswill got up from her writing-table.  She opened the nearest window and, stepping out, looked to her right.  Yes, there was Jack’s neat, compact figure sprinting down the long, straight avenue towards the gate.  He was holding a queer-looking, badly done up parcel in his hands.

“Jack!  Jack!  Come here for a minute—­I want you,” she called out in her clear, rather high-pitched voice.

He slackened, and it was as if she could see him hesitating, wondering whether he dare pretend he had not heard her.  Then he turned and ran back down the drive and across the wide lawn to the window.

“What is it?” he asked breathlessly.  “I’m late as it is!  I’m taking one of our preserving pans to The Trellis House.  The fruit was all picked yesterday.”

“I won’t be a moment.  I want you to take a letter for me to Mrs. Crofton.  I’m asking her to come in to dinner to-night.”

She turned back into the room and, sitting down, took up her pen:  “Timmy?  Go into the scullery, and help Betty for a bit.”

After her little son had left the room, she called out to Jack, “Do come inside; it fidgets me to feel that you’re standing out there.”

After what seemed to Jack Tosswill a long time, though it was only three minutes, his step-mother turned, and held out her note:  “She needn’t write—­a verbal answer will do.  If she can’t come we shall have done the civil thing.”

And then, thinking aloud, she went on:  “Somehow I don’t expect her to stay long in Beechfield.  She’s too much of a London bird.”