"What are you carrying?" he asked Frida, when they were gathered in the hall before starting. "Uncle John's present," she replied. "Do not bother. Uncle John has invited us to stay here, and you do not want to expose your little animals to the risk of being chipped. No doubt Harold will look after them for you in the interim--the short interim. Come, Edith, the moon is not going to wait for us, you know. I have the reins. Gee-up, Primrose!" "Fond as I am of Edith," Hilda said, when the vicarage family was out of hearing. "Fond as I am of Edith," she repeated without any trace of affection in accent or expression, "I do think this invasion is an imposition upon your kindness. But clergymen are all alike; they all become dictatorial and obtuse; they're too fond of the sound of their own voices." "Laurence is perhaps a little heavy," John agreed, "a little suave and heavy like a cornflour shape, but we ought to do what we can for Edith." He tactfully offered Hilda a share in his own benevolence, in which she ensconced herself without hesitation. "Well, I suppose we shall have to make the best of it. Indeed the only thing that _really_ worries me is what we are to do with the apples." "Oh, Harold will soon eat them up," said John; though he had not the slightest intention of being sarcastic, Hilda was so much annoyed by this that she abandoned all discussion of the vicarage and talked so long about Harold's inside and with such a passionate insistence upon what he required of sweet and sour to prevent him from dropping before her very eyes, that John was able fairly soon to plead that the hour was late and that he must go to bed.