The Annual Sale of Work was the parochial Feast of Claxted. A distinguished visitor was always invited to open it; the stalls through which one wandered, were so many courses, so to speak; and in the evening, there were always songs, a few speeches, and light refreshments. So far as the Mission Hall of the church was concerned, only the more superior members were expected to put in an appearance, and these chiefly in the evening. Thus Hodgson always came, but not old Miller. The Christian Endeavour arranged little side-show concerts from six o'clock onwards, at half-hour intervals, but even the Endeavourers were not seen in the afternoon. During those sacred hours, the carriages drew up outside the Parish Room in Edward Street, and there descended from them the elite and the wealthy of the congregation. These, entering the half-empty room, caused a ripple of comment to run through the stall-holders proportionate to their importance. "Old Mrs. Wherry," Mrs. Ernest would whisper enthusiastically to Madeline. "Oh, my dear, try to get her here at once. She always spends such a lot, and she's so blind, she can't see what she buys. She just decides to spend so much, I believe, and when it's spent, no one can get another penny out of her. Do fetch her here." "How can I, mother?" retorted Madeline, on this occasion. "I'll try," said Paul, good-humouredly, and strolled off in her direction. "Madeline, I saw you fastening that ivy with Paul," said Mrs. Ernest, as he went. "Well, mother?" "My dear, anyone might have seen. I thought I saw Mrs. Cator watching. And you know what she is likely to say." Madeline tossed her pretty head. "I know what I am about, mother," she said. "I hope you do," sighed Mrs. Ernest. Her husband was a good man, but without distinction, and truth to tell, she was tired of living on a curate's stipend. Paul came up with Mrs. Wherry. The old lady had been genuinely glad to see him, and, since her own sons had been at Cambridge, she showed him caustic good humour. "You want me to spend my money here, I suppose, do you? Well, it doesn't much matter to me. Good afternoon, Mrs. Ernest. I see you've adopted a system of pickets. Or is it Miss Ernest? Still everything's fair in love and war, and certainly a Sale of Work is war. What have you? I shall only buy things that I can send elsewhere." Paul stood chatting with Madeline again while the old lady did her shopping. A little hum of talk covered their conversation, which was broken now and again as someone nodded and spoke to him, or he was sent off by his father on some trivial errand. He was not as bored as usual, but drifted back to the ivy-hung stall fairly regularly. At half past four he suggested tea. "You can go, Madeline," said Mrs. Ernest. "I'll wait a little. Someone must watch the stall." "Come on then," said Paul, catching Madeline's eye, and she moved off with him.