The Chesters of Pinnels End were as much an institution in the Fareham neighbourhood as the Abbey Church, itself. Hospitality was a religion with them, and William Chester and Olivia his wife were never so happy as when their big wandering house was absolutely full. They had six grown-up sons scattered about the world who were forever sending their friends to "cheer up the old people," so they were seldom lonely. They were not particularly rich, certainly not smart--the interior of Pinnels was almost conspicuously shabby--but they were the youngest and cheeriest old people imaginable, and their house was comfortable as are few houses. Those who had once enjoyed its entertainment were fain to return with gleeful frequency.

For nearly four hundred years there had been Chesters at Pinnels End--large families of Chesters, and however they may have differed as to politics, religion, or personal taste, they were supremely unanimous in one matter: they none of them could bear any changes at Pinnels.

Mrs. Chester used to declare that until a carpet there actually fell to pieces and tripped up her husband and sons, she was never allowed to replace it. That done, it was months before they became resigned, years before they consented to regard it with any but the most grudging toleration, and even then it was compared unfavourably with its predecessors.

The party to be assembled at Pinnels consisted of three of the sons--two on leave from India and Egypt respectively; the third an Oxford man who had just taken his degree and was marking time at home while his father sought out an agent with whom to place him to learn estate management--Lallie, Sidney Ballinger, who was asked because he was a neighbour, and because kind Mrs. Chester knew that he would rather be in the same house with Lallie Clonmell than anywhere else on earth. There was Celia Jones, the usual "nice girl" of house parties, who possessed no striking characteristics whatsoever; and the remaining guest was a Mrs. Atwood, the wife of a busy doctor in Carlisle.

Her host would have found it rather difficult to explain Mrs. Atwood's presence. He met her while he and his wife were spending a few days in a house of a mutual friend about a fortnight before; and somehow, although he could never remember exactly how it came about, Mrs. Atwood had extracted an invitation from him for this particular week-end.

"Did you take such a fancy to her, father?" Mrs. Chester asked, when informed of the lady's projected visit. "I didn't care much for her myself, and I shouldn't have thought she was your sort either."

"I can't say I was greatly attracted, though there's something rather pleasing and pathetic about her, and she wanted so badly to fill in those four days between two visits. It's such a deuce of a way back to Carlisle--and she 'longed' so to see Fareham--historic old town, you know--and consulted me about hotels there, and so on. You've often done the same thing yourself; you know you have."

"Oh, I shall be most pleased to see her and, of course I've told her so. Only--I wonder how she'll fit in with the others."

"She'll fit in right enough; the more the merrier."

"I can't imagine Mrs. Atwood merry under any circumstances."

"All the more reason to try and cheer her up," Mr. Chester remarked optimistically, and the subject dropped.

Eileen Atwood was thirty-six years old, and looked at least five years younger. She was tall, slender, and fair, with a graceful, well-set head, large heavy-lidded and generally downcast blue eyes, a small close mouth, and a chin that would have been markedly receding had she not so persistently drooped her head forward. It is only people with firm chins who can afford to carry their heads in the air. She spoke very low, and was fond of discussing what she was pleased to call "psychic things." She herself would have said that she "bore an aura of unhappiness"; and the world in general concluded that Dr. Atwood was not simpatico. She had no children nor, apparently, many domestic claims, for she spent a large portion of her time in paying visits. Simple people considered her intellectual because she used such long and unusual words. Others of proved ability, such as her husband, had a different opinion.

Lallie arrived at Pinnels before luncheon. She left B. House by the first available train in the morning--partly because she knew Tony and Miss Foster to be very anxious about Tarrant, who was to be moved to the hospital that morning, and she thought they would be glad to have her out of the way; and partly because she was quite certain that Sidney Ballinger would not travel by such an early train, and she did not desire him as an escort. When they rode to the meet together he had implored her to give him an idea of what time next day she would travel to Fareham, but she persisted that her plans were too uncertain to admit of any information on this point. Therefore did he choose a train that would get him to Fareham in time for tea at Pinnels End, rightly thinking that this was the usual and agreeable time to arrive. He nearly lost his train through procrastination in the matter of taking his seat, having walked the whole length of the train several times peering into every carriage in a vain search for Lallie; and he endured a miserable journey, assailed by dismal doubts and fears lest Lallie had changed her mind and decided not to go at all.

It was therefore a great relief when he was ushered into the dark old hall at Pinnels to hear Lallie's voice raised in song in the duet "Thou the stream and I the river," which she and Billy Chester, the would-be land agent, were performing with great enthusiasm.

The drawing-room was almost as dark as the hall, for the lamps had not yet been brought in, and the only lights were from two candles upon the piano and the big fire of logs on the hearth. For years the present owner of Pinnels had been considering the installation of an electric-light plant, but he had never been able to bring himself to such an innovation. "It would pull the old place about," he observed apologetically, "and, after all, lamps are very handy, you can put 'em wherever you want 'em."

Ballinger waited at the open door till the duet had come to a triumphant and crescendoed conclusion, and then preceded the footman bearing tea.

He was the last to arrive, and the various greetings over Mrs. Chester led him over to the fireplace, remarking:

"I think you know everybody here except Mrs. Atwood."

That lady, seated in a particularly dark corner, leant forward, saying in her usual soft tones:

"Mr. Ballinger and I have met before; in fact, we are quite old friends."

"Why did you never tell me?" asked Mrs. Chester, and left them.
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