We wound up the evening with a
little singing. The extent of Dick's repertoire surprised me;
evidently he has not been so idle at Cambridge as it seemed. Young
Bute has a baritone voice of some richness. We remembered at
quarter-past eleven that Veronica ought to have gone to bed at eight.
We were all of us surprised at the lateness of the hour.
"Why can't we always live in a cottage and do just as we like? I'm
sure it's much jollier," Veronica put it to me as I kissed her good
night.
"Because we are idiots, most of us, Veronica," I answered.
CHAPTER V
I started the next morning to call upon St. Leonard. Near to the
house I encountered young Hopkins on a horse. He was waving a
pitchfork over his head and reciting "The Charge of the Light
Brigade." The horse looked amused. He told me I should find "the
gov'nor" up by the stables. St. Leonard is not an "old man." Dick
must have seen him in a bad light. I should describe him as about
the prime of life, a little older than myself, but nothing to speak
of. Dick was right, however, in saying he was not like a farmer. To
begin with, "Hubert St. Leonard" does not sound like a farmer. One
can imagine a man with a name like that writing a book about farming,
having theories on this subject. But in the ordinary course of
nature things would not grow for him. He does not look like a
farmer. One cannot say precisely what it is, but there is that about
a farmer that tells you he is a farmer.
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