ke having her roses picked without
her leave, and quite right, too."

He had a habit, Mary remarked, and she had never noticed it so clearly
before, of letting his sentences tail away in a continuous murmur,
whereupon he passed into a state of abstraction, presumed by his
children to indicate some train of thought too profound for utterance.

"What?" said Mary, interrupting, for the first time in her life,
perhaps, when the murmur ceased. He made no reply. She knew very well
that he wished to be left alone, but she stuck to his side much as
she might have stuck to some sleep-walker, whom she thought it right
gradually to awaken. She could think of nothing to rouse him with
except:

"The garden's looking very nice, father."

"Yes, yes, yes," said Mr. Datchet, running his words together in the
same abstracted manner, and sinking his head yet lower upon his breast.
And suddenly, as they turned their steps to retrace their way, he jerked
out:

"The traffic's very much increased, you know. More rolling-stock needed
already. Forty trucks went down yesterday by the 12.15--counted them
myself. They've taken off the 9.3, and given us an 8.30 instead--suits
the business men, you know. You came by the old 3.10 yesterday, I
suppose?"

She said "Yes," as he seemed to wish for a reply, and then he looked
at his watch, and made off down the path towards the house, holding the
rose at the same angle in front of him. Elizabeth had gone round to the
side of the house, where the chickens lived, so that Mary found herself
alone, holding Ralph's letter in her hand. She was uneasy. She had put
off the season for thinking things out very successfully, and now that
Ralph was actually coming, the next day, she could only wonder how her
family would impress him. She thought it likely that her father would
discuss the train service with him; Elizabeth would be bright and
sensible, and always leaving the room to give messages to the servants.
Her brothers had already said that they would give him a day's shooting.
She was content to leave the problem of Ralph's relations to the
young men obscure, trusting that they would find some common ground of
masculine agreement. But what would he think of HER? Would he see that
she was different from the rest of the family? She devised a plan for
taking him to her sitting-room, and artfully leading the talk towards
the English poets, who now occupied prominent places in her little
bookcase. Moreover,