On his way up the road to call for Alan he met the postman, who in answer to his enquiries handed him a letter from South Africa stamped all over with mysterious official abbreviations. He took it up to his mother curiously. At lunch he asked her about the news from the war. “Yes, dear, I had a letter,” she murmured. “From Lord Saxby, I suppose?” “Yes, dear.” “Anything interesting?” Michael persisted. “Oh, no, it’s only about marches and not being able to wash properly.” “I thought it might be interesting,” Michael speculated. “No, dear. It wouldn’t interest you,” said Mrs. Fane in her tone of gentle discouragement. “I don’t want to be inquisitive,” said Michael resentfully. “No, dear, I’m sure you don’t,” his mother softly agreed. The holidays ran their pastoral course of sun and rain, of clouds and winds, until the last week arrived with September in her most majestic mood of flawless halcyon. These were days that more than any hitherto enhanced for Michael the reverence he felt for the household of Cobble Place. These were days when Mrs. Carthew stepped wisely along her flowery enclosure, pondering the plums and peaches on the warm walls that in a transcendency of mellow sunlight almost took on the texture of living sunburnt flesh. These were days when Joan and May Carthew went down the village street with great bunches of Michaelmas daisies, of phloxes and Japanese anemones, or sat beneath the mulberry tree, sewing in the bee-drowsed air. At the foot of the hill beyond the stream was a straggling wind-frayed apple-orchard, fresh pasturage for lambs in spring, and now in September a jolly haunt for the young son of Mrs. Ross. Here one afternoon, when Alan was away at Basingstead Major playing the last cricket match of the year, Michael plunged down in the grass beside her.