The meal was not lively; it lacked Ivy’s good-humour, Mus’ Beatup’s talkativeness, Bill Putland’s wit, Mr. Sumption’s big laugh and childish enjoyment of his food. The party consisted only of the two families—Beatups and Kadwells. Old Mus’ Kadwell droned about the War, and the “drore” in which he prophesied it would end, Mrs. Kadwell compared with Mrs. Beatup a day’s adventures in search of meat, Lizzie Kadwell tried to flirt with Harry, who was overwhelmed with shame and annoyance at her efforts, and Sim Kadwell, who had been best man, gave wearying details of the Indispensable’s Progress from tribunal to tribunal. Steve Kadwell could get only a week-end’s leave, so the honeymoon would be short, and afterwards Nell would come back to Worge, and live there as before, except for her “teachering,” which her husband had made her give up, so that she might be at hand when he wanted her, free to go with him on any unexpected leave. He would have longer leave given him soon, he promised her, and they would go to London and have a valiant time. On this occasion they were going no further that Brighton, but they would stay at a fine hotel and have late dinner and a fire in their bedroom. Nell drove away with her hand limp and rather cold in Kadwell’s big fondling clasp. The pale February sun slanted to Worge’s roof from the west, and a clammy, mould-flavoured mist hung over the hedges, like the winter ghost of those fogs which had webbed the farm with dusty gold in harvest-time. Nell looked back at the old house and the fields behind it—since she was leaving home only for two days, it was queer to feel that she was leaving it for ever. 9 It was raining and foggy when she came back. Thick white muffles of cloud drifted up the fields, and hung between the hedges, catching and choking all sound. Rain fell noiselessly, almost invisibly, apparent only in an occasional whorl, in the dripping eaves of the stacks, the shining roofs of the barns, and the whiteness of the beaded grass. Nell came from Hailsham station in a cab—her husband had told her to do so, giving her paper money for the fare. He certainly was princely in his ideas of spending, and there were loud and envious exclamations at Worge when, instead of the soaked and huddled figure expected, Nell appeared bone-dry, without even her umbrella unfurled. “A cab from Hailsham!” cried Mrs. Beatup. “Reckon you’ve got a good husband.” “And did you have the fire in your bedroom?” asked Zacky. “Yes,” said Nell. “A shilling every night.” She kissed her mother and brothers, and Ivy, who was over for the day and now came out of the kitchen, with a bear’s hug for her sister. “You’ve got a new hat!” she exclaimed. “Yes; Steve saw it in a shop in Brighton and bought it for me.” “Lork!” cried Mrs. Beatup. “But it aun’t your usual style,” said Ivy; “you most-ways wear ’em more quiet-like. I’ve seen many of that sort of hat come on the tram, and it’s generally what the boys call a tart.”