Mrs. Quantock was very thirsty with her gardening, and the tea was very hot. She poured it into her saucer and blew on it. “Lucia would be wise not to waste any time,” she said, “if she intends to have any fun out of it, for, you know, Georgie, we’re beginning to get old. I’m fifty-two. How old are you?” Georgie disliked that barbarous sort of question. He had been the young man of Riseholme so long that the habit was ingrained, and he hardly believed that he was forty-eight. “Forty-three,” he said, “but what does it matter how old we are, as long as we’re busy and amused? And I’m sure Lucia has got all the energy and life she ever had. I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if she made a start in London, and went in for all that. Then of course, there’s Pepino, but he only cares for writing his poetry and looking through his telescope.” “I hate that telescope,” said Daisy. “He took me up on to the roof the other night and showed me what he said was Mars, and I’ll take my oath he said that the same one was Venus only a week before. But as I couldn’t see anything either time, it didn’t make much difference.” The door opened, and Mr. Quantock came in. Robert was like a little round brown sarcastic beetle. Georgie got up to greet him, and stood in the full blaze of the light. Robert certainly saw his trousers, for his eyes seemed unable to quit the spreading folds that lay round Georgie’s ankles: he looked at them as if he was Cortez and they some new planet. Then without a word he folded his arms and danced a few steps of what was clearly meant to be a sailor’s hornpipe. “Heave-ho, Georgie,” he said. “Belay there and avast.” “What is he talking about?” said Daisy. Georgie, quite apart from his general good-nature, always strove to propitiate Mr. Quantock. He was far the most sarcastic person in Riseholme and could say sharp things straight off, whereas Georgie had to think a long time before he got a nasty edge to any remark, and then his good-nature generally forbade him to slash with it. “He’s talking about my new clothes,” he said, “and he’s being very naughty. Any news?” “Any news?” was the general gambit of conversation in Riseholme. It could not have been bettered, for there always was news. And there was now. “Yes, Pepino’s gone to the station,” said Mr. Quantock. “Just like a large black crow. Waved a black hand. Bah! Why not call a release a release and have done with it? And if you don’t know--why, I’ll tell you. It’s because they’re rolling in riches. Why, I’ve calculated----” “Yes?” said Daisy and Georgie simultaneously. “So you’ve been calculating too?” said Mr. Quantock. “Might have a sweepstake for the one who gets nearest. I say three thousand a year.” “Not so much,” said Georgie and Daisy again simultaneously. “All right. But that’s no reason why I shouldn’t have a lump of sugar in my tea.” “Dear me, no,” said Daisy genially. “But how do you make it up to three thousand?”