though he dealt with Harrington’s, an errand-boy visited the school
every morning to take orders and saved him the trouble of a walk into the
village. This afternoon, however, he recollected a text-book that he wanted
and had forgotten to order; besides, the heat of the mid-afternoon tempted
him to seek shelter in one or other of the tranquil diamond-windowed shops
whose sun-blinds sprawled unevenly along the street. It was the hottest day
of the term, so far. A huge thermometer outside Harrington’s gave the shade
temperature as a little over seventy-nine; all the roadway was bubbling with
little gouts of soft tar. The innumerable dogs of Millstead, quarrelsome by
nature, had called an armistice on account of the heat, and lay languidly
across shady sections of the pavement. Speed, tanned by a week of successive
hot days, with a Panama pushed down over his forehead to shield his eyes from
dazzle, pushed open the small door and entered the cool cavern of the
shop.
His eyes, unaccustomed to the gloom, were blind for a moment, but he heard
movement of some kind behind the counter. “I want an atlas of the British
Isles,” he said, feeling his way across the shop. “A school atlas, I mean.
Cheap, rather, you know—about a shilling or one-and-sixpence.”
He heard Clare’s voice reply: “Yes, Mr. Speed, I know what you want. Hot
weather, isn’t it?”
“Very.”
She went on, searching meanwhile along same shelves: “Nice of you not to
bother about seeing me home the other night, Mr. Speed.”
He said, with a touch of embarrassment: “Well, you see, you told me.
About—about Miss Ervine getting jealous, you know.”
“It was nice of you to take my information without doubting it.”
He said, rather to his own surprise: “As a matter of fact, I’m not sure
that I don’t doubt it. Miss Ervine seems to me a perfectly delightful and
natural girl, far too unsophisticated to be jealous of anybody. The more I
see of her the more. I like her.”
After a pause she answered quietly: “Well, I’m not surprised at that.”
“I suppose,” he went on, “with her it’s rather the opposite. I mean, the
more she sees of me the less she likes me. Isn’t that it?”
“I shouldn’t think she likes you any less than she did at first…Here’s
the atlas. It’s one and three—I’d better put it on your account,
eh?”
“Yes, yes, of course…So you think—”
She interrupted him quickly with: “Mr. Speed, you’d better not ask me what
I think. You’re far more subtle in understanding people than I am, and it
won’t take you long to discover what Helen thinks of you if you set about
with the intention…Those sketch-blocks you ordered haven’t come in
yet…Well, good afternoon!”
Another customer had entered the shop, so that all he could do was to
return a rather dazed “Good afternoon” and emerge into the blazing High
Street. He walked back to the school in a state of not unpleasant
puzzlement.
II
The term, progressed, and towards the end of May occurred
the death of Sir Huntly Polk, Bart., Chairman of the Governors of Millstead
School. This would not have in any way affected Speed (who had never even met
Sir Huntly) had not a Memorial Service been arranged at which he was to play
Chopin’s Funeral March on the chapel organ. It was a decent modern
instrument, operated usually by Raggs, the visiting organist, who combined a
past reputation of great splendour with a present passion for the vox
humana stop; but Speed sometimes took the place of Raggs when Raggs
wanted time off. And at the time fixed for the Sir Huntly Polk Memorial
Service Raggs was adjudicating with great solemnity at a Northern musical
festival.
Speed was not a particularly good organist, and it was only reluctantly
that he undertook Raggs’s duty for him For one thing, he was always slightly
nervous of doing things in public. And for another thing, he would have to
practise a great
every morning to take orders and saved him the trouble of a walk into the
village. This afternoon, however, he recollected a text-book that he wanted
and had forgotten to order; besides, the heat of the mid-afternoon tempted
him to seek shelter in one or other of the tranquil diamond-windowed shops
whose sun-blinds sprawled unevenly along the street. It was the hottest day
of the term, so far. A huge thermometer outside Harrington’s gave the shade
temperature as a little over seventy-nine; all the roadway was bubbling with
little gouts of soft tar. The innumerable dogs of Millstead, quarrelsome by
nature, had called an armistice on account of the heat, and lay languidly
across shady sections of the pavement. Speed, tanned by a week of successive
hot days, with a Panama pushed down over his forehead to shield his eyes from
dazzle, pushed open the small door and entered the cool cavern of the
shop.
His eyes, unaccustomed to the gloom, were blind for a moment, but he heard
movement of some kind behind the counter. “I want an atlas of the British
Isles,” he said, feeling his way across the shop. “A school atlas, I mean.
Cheap, rather, you know—about a shilling or one-and-sixpence.”
He heard Clare’s voice reply: “Yes, Mr. Speed, I know what you want. Hot
weather, isn’t it?”
“Very.”
She went on, searching meanwhile along same shelves: “Nice of you not to
bother about seeing me home the other night, Mr. Speed.”
He said, with a touch of embarrassment: “Well, you see, you told me.
About—about Miss Ervine getting jealous, you know.”
“It was nice of you to take my information without doubting it.”
He said, rather to his own surprise: “As a matter of fact, I’m not sure
that I don’t doubt it. Miss Ervine seems to me a perfectly delightful and
natural girl, far too unsophisticated to be jealous of anybody. The more I
see of her the more. I like her.”
After a pause she answered quietly: “Well, I’m not surprised at that.”
“I suppose,” he went on, “with her it’s rather the opposite. I mean, the
more she sees of me the less she likes me. Isn’t that it?”
“I shouldn’t think she likes you any less than she did at first…Here’s
the atlas. It’s one and three—I’d better put it on your account,
eh?”
“Yes, yes, of course…So you think—”
She interrupted him quickly with: “Mr. Speed, you’d better not ask me what
I think. You’re far more subtle in understanding people than I am, and it
won’t take you long to discover what Helen thinks of you if you set about
with the intention…Those sketch-blocks you ordered haven’t come in
yet…Well, good afternoon!”
Another customer had entered the shop, so that all he could do was to
return a rather dazed “Good afternoon” and emerge into the blazing High
Street. He walked back to the school in a state of not unpleasant
puzzlement.
II
The term, progressed, and towards the end of May occurred
the death of Sir Huntly Polk, Bart., Chairman of the Governors of Millstead
School. This would not have in any way affected Speed (who had never even met
Sir Huntly) had not a Memorial Service been arranged at which he was to play
Chopin’s Funeral March on the chapel organ. It was a decent modern
instrument, operated usually by Raggs, the visiting organist, who combined a
past reputation of great splendour with a present passion for the vox
humana stop; but Speed sometimes took the place of Raggs when Raggs
wanted time off. And at the time fixed for the Sir Huntly Polk Memorial
Service Raggs was adjudicating with great solemnity at a Northern musical
festival.
Speed was not a particularly good organist, and it was only reluctantly
that he undertook Raggs’s duty for him For one thing, he was always slightly
nervous of doing things in public. And for another thing, he would have to
practise a great
Similar Books
