It was of a piece with Mr. Crewe’s good fortune of getting what he wanted that the day of the garden-party was the best that September could do in that country, which is to say that it was very beautiful.  A pregnant stillness enwrapped the hills, a haze shot with gold dust, like the filmiest of veils, softened the distant purple and the blue-black shadows under the pines.  Austen awoke from his dream in this enchanted borderland to find himself in a long line of wagons filled with people in their Sunday clothes,—­the men in black, and the young women in white, with gay streamers, wending their way through the rear-entrance drive of Wedderburn, where one of Mr. Crewe’s sprucest employees was taking up the invitation cards like tickets,—­a precaution to prevent the rowdy element from Ripton coming and eating up the refreshments.  Austen obediently tied Pepper in a field, as he was directed, and made his way by a path through the woods towards the house, where the Ripton Band could be heard playing the second air in the programme, “Don’t you wish you’d Waited?”

For a really able account of that memorable entertainment see the Ripton Record of that week, for we cannot hope to vie with Mr. Pardriff when his heart is really in his work.  How describe the noble figure of Mr. Crewe as it burst upon Austen when he rounded the corner of the house?  Clad in a rough-and-ready manner, with a Gladstone collar to indicate the newly acquired statesmanship, and fairly radiating geniality, Mr. Crewe stood at the foot of the steps while the guests made the circuit of the driveway; and they carefully avoided, in obedience to a warning sign, the grass circle in the centre.  As man and wife confronted him, Mr. Crewe greeted them in hospitable but stentorian tones that rose above the strains of “Don’t you wish you’d Waited?” It was Mr. Ball who introduced his townspeople to the great man who was to represent them.

“How are you?” said Mr. Crewe, with his eyes on the geraniums.  “Mr. and Mrs. Perley Wright, eh?  Make yourselves at home.  Everything’s free —­you’ll find the refreshments on the back porch—­just have an eye to the signs posted round, that’s all.”  And Mr. and Mrs. Perley Wright, overwhelmed by such a welcome, would pass on into a back eddy of neighbours, where they would stick, staring at a sign requesting them please not to pick the flowers.

“Can’t somebody stir ’em up?” Mr. Crewe shouted in an interval when the band had stopped to gather strength for a new effort.  “Can’t somebody move ’em round to see the cows and what’s in the house and the automobile and the horses?  Move around the driveway, please.  It’s so hot here you can’t breathe.  Some of you wanted to see what was in the house.  Now’s your chance.”

This graceful appeal had some temporary effect, but the congestion soon returned, when a man of the hour appeared, a man whose genius scattered the groups and who did more to make the party a success than any single individual,—­Mr. Hamilton Tooting, in a glorious white silk necktie with purple flowers.