tawdry, he thought; it had been much prettier in spring-time when the lilac was in blossom.  There was not much pleasure in punting,—­the river was too glassy and glaring in the sun,—­the water dripped greasily from the pole like warm oil—­besides, why go punting when there was nobody but one’s self to punt?  Whether it was his own idle fancy, or a fact, he imagined that the village of St. Rest and its villagers had, in some mysterious way, become separated from him.  Everybody in the place, or nearly everybody, had something to do for Miss Vancourt, or else for one or other of Miss Vancourt’s guests.  Everything went ’up to the Manor ’—­or came ’down from the Manor’—­the village tradespeople were all catering for the Manor—­ and Mr. Netlips, the grocer, driving himself solemnly ever to Riversford one day, came back with a board—­’a banner with a strange device’—­painted in blue letters on a white ground, which said: 

Petrol stored here.

This startling announcement became a marvel and a fascination to the eyes of the villagers, every one of them coming out of their houses to look at it, directly it was displayed.

“You’ll be settin’ the ’ouse on fire, Mr. Netlips, I’m afraid,” said Mrs. Frost, severely, putting her arms akimbo, and sniffing at the board as though she could smell the spirit it proclaimed—­“You don’t know nothink about petrol!  An’ we ain’t goin’ to have motor-cars often ’ere, please the Lord’s goodness!”

Mr. Netlips smiled a superior smile.

“My good woman,”—­he said, with his most magisterial air—­“if you will kindly manage your own business, which is that of pruning the olive and uprooting the vine, and leave me to manage my establishment as the reversible movement of the age requires, it will be better for the equanimity of the gastritis.”

“Good Lord!” and Mrs. Frost threw up her hands—­“You’re a fine sort of man for a grocer, with your reversibles and your gastritis!  What in the world are you talking about?”

Mr. Netlips, busy with the unpacking of a special Stilton cheese which he was about to send ‘up to the Manor,’ waved her away with one hand.

“I am talking above your head altogther, Mrs. Frost,”—­he said, placidly—­“I know it!  I am aware that my consonances do not tympanise on your brain.  Good afternoon!”

“Petrol Stored Here!”—­said Bainton, standing squat before the announcement, as he returned from his day’s work—­“Hor-hor-hor!  Hor-hor!  I say, Mr. Netlips, don’t blow us all into the middle of next week.  Where does ye store it?  Out in the coal-shed?  It’s awful ’spensive, ain’t it?”

“It is costly,”—­admitted Mr. Netlips, with a grandiose manner, implying that even if it had cost millions he would have been equal to ‘stocking’ it—­“But the traveling aristocrat does not interrogate the lucrative matter.”

“Don’t he?” and Bainton scratched his head ruminatively.  “I s’pose you knows what you means, Mr. Netlips, an’ you gen’ally means a lot.  Howsomever, I thought you was dead set against aristocrats anyway—­ your pol’tics was for what you call masses,—­not classes, nor asses neither.  Them was your sentiments not long ago, worn’t they?”