When the Londoner had finished an address on the slothfulness of country life, he permitted himself to announce, more calmly, that he expected it to be performed now and at once. The young railway porter went across the station-yard, spoke a word to the signalman on duty, and started off up the hill at a pace that seemed too good to last. He did, indeed, return to say that if later Mr. Polsworthy observed he was wearing a white flower in his jacket, this might be taken as a hint that Miss Thirkell was willing to keep the appointment; if the flower was red, it would indicate she was unable to come. Mr. Polsworthy went to his hotel, where, with the aid of scented soap, he put good sharp points to his moustache, and ordered, seemingly to give opportunity for range and ability in criticism, certain refreshment; the landlady said that his complaint was the first she had received since the year ’92, and strongly recommended him to take his bag to the “King’s Head,” which possessed but a limited licence. Mr. Polsworthy, in apologising, remarked that he was one accustomed to the very best of everything, and the lady expressed an opinion that his looks and general appearance failed to bear out this assertion. George Hunt, sweeping the platform, was wearing a red flower, and Mr. Polsworthy turned away regretfully, to consider some new mode of approaching the vicarage lady. A whistle recalled him, and George managed to make it clear that everything was right; he had placed the wrong flower in his jacket—a mistake, he said, that might have happened to anybody. George seemed highly interested now in the scheme, and produced a beard with wires to go over each ear; challenged, he confessed that he was not prepared to say to what use it should be put, or to declare that it was of any use, but it had been in his possession for some time, and he felt that either he or Mr. Polsworthy ought to wear it. “By that means,” he urged, “recognition, if you understand what I mean, will be avoided.” “But who is there to recognise us, and what does it matter if we are recognised?” “There is that,” conceded George. “You’re a fool,” declared Mr. Polsworthy. “Not the first to pass that remark to me, not by a long chalk, you ain’t. Mother says it ’bout once a day.”