And yet, as the afternoon wore away, the sweetness of the dream returned again. Kingston-on-Thames—there was such sound of dignity to her. The shadow of history and the glamour of stately progress enveloped her. The palaces would be old and darkened, the place of kings obscured. Yet it was a place of kings for her—Richard and Henry and Wolsey and Queen Elizabeth. She divined great lawns with noble trees, and terraces whose steps the water washed softly, where the swans sometimes came to earth. Still she must see the stately, gorgeous barge of the Queen float down, the crimson carpet put upon the landing stairs, the gentlemen in their purple-velvet cloaks, bare-headed, standing in the sunshine grouped on either side waiting. “Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song.” Evening came, her father returned home, sanguine and alert and detached as ever. He was less real than her fancies. She waited whilst he ate his tea. He took big mouthfuls, big bites, and ate unconsciously with the same abandon an animal gives to its food. Immediately after tea he went over to the church. It was choir-practice, and he wanted to try the tunes on his organ. The latch of the big door clicked loudly as she came after him, but the organ rolled more loudly still. He was unaware. He was practicing the anthem. She saw his small, jet-black head and alert face between the candle-flames, his slim body sagged on the music-stool. His face was so luminous and fixed, the movements of his limbs seemed strange, apart from him. The sound of the organ seemed to belong to the very stone of the pillars, like sap running in them. Then there was a close of music and silence. “Father!” she said. He looked round as if at an apparition. Ursula stood shadowily within the candle-light. “What now?” he said, not coming to earth. It was difficult to speak to him. “I’ve got a situation,” she said, forcing herself to speak. “You’ve got what?” he answered, unwilling to come out of his mood of organ-playing. He closed the music before him. “I’ve got a situation to go to.” Then he turned to her, still abstracted, unwilling. “Oh, where’s that?” he said. “At Kingston-on-Thames. I must go on Thursday for an interview with the Committee.” “You must go on Thursday?” “Yes.” And she handed him the letter. He read it by the light of the candles. “Ursula Brangwen, Yew Tree Cottage, Cossethay, Derbyshire. “Dear Madam, You are requested to call at the above offices on Thursday next, the 10th, at 11.30 a.m., for an interview with the committee, referring to your application for the post of assistant mistress at the Wellingborough Green Schools.” It was very difficult for Brangwen to take in this remote and official information, glowing as he was within the quiet of his church and his anthem music. “Well, you needn’t bother me with it now, need you?’ he said impatiently, giving her back the letter. “I’ve got to go on Thursday,” she said.