Therefore, on this fine June morning, Mr. Fothersley was perturbed. The knowledge that Mr. Pithey dwelt in the noble grey stone house on the opposite hill, in the place of his old friend, Helford Rose, spoilt “his view” for him. And, for the first time, too, one of Ruth Seer’s new cottages had become visible just below his own pasture fields. The workmen were putting on the roof. It was to Mr. Fothersley an unseemly sight in Mentmore. Ruth had done her best, she had spent both time and money in securing material that would not spoil the harmony or character of the little village, but as Mr. Fothersley had said, it was the thin end of the wedge. What was to prevent Mr. Pithey from scattering some horrible epidemic of hideous utilitarian domiciles broadcast over his wide estate? Mr. Fothersley shuddered, and remembered with thankfulness that they were not at present a paying proposition. Still, he wished Miss Seer had not these queer manias. Not that he disliked her—far from it. Indeed, the little basket of his special early strawberries, poised in his right hand, was on its way to her. And he had even traced a distant cousinship with her on the Courthope side. Since what was now familiarly known in his set as the Pithian Invasion he considered her a distinct asset at Thorpe. “I would not have had old Dick’s place vulgarized for a good deal,” he said to himself as he descended the hill. “And I know even he did talk of building some cottages before the war, poor dear fellow.” All the same, he did not feel in his usual spirits, and presently, to add to his discomfort, he passed the local sweep, window cleaner, and generally handy man, who, instead of touching his hat as of old, nodded a cheery, “Good-morning, Mr. Fothersley! Nice weather,” to him. Mr. Fothersley did not like it. Most distinctly it annoyed him! It had been one thing to go and see Mankelow when he was wounded, and a patient in the local V.A.D., and make a considerable fuss over him, but that, as Mr. Pithey was fond of saying, “was different.” It was decidedly presuming on it for Mankelow to treat him in that “Hail fellow, well met” way. This brought to Mr. Fothersley’s mind the threatening strikes among the miners, transport workers, and what Mr. Fothersley vaguely designated as “those sort of people.” He wondered what would happen if all the sweeps went on strike. It was a most dangerous thing to light fires with a large accumulation of soot up the chimney—most dangerous. At this moment he nearly collided with Ruth Seer, as she came swiftly round the Post Office corner. They both stopped, laughed, and apologized. “I was just on my way to you with some of our early strawberries,” said Mr. Fothersley, exposing a corner of the contents of his basket. “How very good of you!” exclaimed Ruth. “And I do love them. Will you wait for me one moment? I am going on my way to send a telegram to Mr. North.”