The financial slump was over, and the Maxwells prospered, and were able to afford a governess for Ursula and Bunny--young ruffians of seven and five. She slept in the attic, converted into a bedroom of romantic views and skylights and sloping murky caves quite unappreciated by Miss Roberts, who nevertheless protested with smiling gums that she would be “perfectly comfortable up here, thank you, Mrs. Maxwell. I couldn’t ask for anything nicer.” Aunt Lavvy remained as a presence of tranquil sunshine in the house, and the sum she paid for her board and lodging was so unobtrusive as to be practically invisible. But the pressure on space was beginning to be felt, and once or twice Mrs. Maxwell suggested moving. But her husband refused: “Clover’s not for the rover,” he said. He also said that he wanted the kiddies to think of the Laburnums as “home.” His real reason was a subconscious terror of change, a diffident fear of not being able to cope successfully with innovation--he always had an underneath reason he knew very little about, to correspond with every reason of which he was definitely aware. So had his wife. And, directly they were old enough, so had Grace, Nina, Hal, Ursula, Bunny and Lottie. Not William. William had only one layer of thoughts--a good stolid layer with plenty of wear in it. Certainly, a change of residence did involve possible readjustments of habit, and so of thought: the dining-room window might be placed differently; their chairs at table might be altered round; and if the station were nearer, he might not be obliged to start till twenty-five to nine instead of twenty past eight, and that would throw the whole day out of gear.... And if they left Buckler’s Cross, the face of the new ticket-collector would be unfamiliar; and he would not know at first what time the post went out.... So they stayed at the Laburnums: They had got used to the house, and a little squashing was nothing to make a fuss about.