Mrs. Fazackerly, closely interrogated, admitted that she knew Captain Patch was writing, but that he did not seem to require quiet, or solitude, or even a writing table. Quite often he sat under the pink May tree on the circular bench in the garden, with a pencil and a small notebook. At intervals he wrote in the notebook, and at intervals he talked to Father. He did not seem to mind interruptions. “Come, come!” said the Kendals, rather severely at this. They knew better than that, even though authors had been hitherto unknown in Cross Loman. But then Nancy Fazackerly’s statements were never to be relied upon. “She likes to put herself forward,” was the trenchant verdict of the Kendals. “I don’t believe she knows anything at all about his writing. She only wants to sound as though she did.” They did not say this at all unkindly. It is the natural instinct of them all, from Puppa and Mumma downward, to adopt, and voice, a disparaging view of humanity. They did not, however, disparage Captain Patch. They liked him. Everyone liked him, even old Carey. To those who did not employ the filial euphemisms always made use of by his daughter, Nancy’s father appeared as an aged, unreasonable bully, known to have driven his daughter into an improvident marriage. It being supposed that Mrs. Fazackerly elected to return to her parents’ house after her widowhood for reasons of finance, quite a number of people, that summer, frequently informed other people that she would certainly marry again at the earliest opportunity. An impression gradually began to prevail that the opportunity might be at hand. The Kendals steadfastly reiterated; “He’s years younger than she is,” but they said it without very much conviction. Only Sallie Ambrey declared that Captain Patch was not, and never could be, attracted by Mrs. Fazackerly. “But why not, Sallie? Do you know anything about it, or is it just that you like putting yourself forward?” “It’s a case of using my powers of observation,” said Sallie, perfectly indifferent to the uncomplimentary form of the Kendals’ characteristic inquiry. “He is nice to everyone, but he’s a hopeless and temperamental romantic, and I believe he’s one of the few men I’ve ever met who is capable of a _grande passion_.” “What can you know about it?” murmured Dolly, almost automatically. “As for Nancy Fazackerly, I don’t believe she’d inspire anyone with a _grande passion_, and I’m certain she’d have no use for one herself. She’s essentially practical, and he is essentially an idealist.” “I agree with you about her, of course,” Martyn said to his sister, “but I admit that you’ve gone further than I should be prepared to go about him. You may be right, of course. To me, he’s simply a curiously straightforward, rather primitive person, with limited powers of self-expression. Take his writing, for instance--” “Oh, if you’re going to talk about books, we’ll be off,” said Aileen Kendal, hastily.