The long lazy afternoons of July, full of strong heat and the intense perfume of field-flowers, had never seemed so long and lazy to John Walden as during this particular summer. He felt as if he had nothing in the world to do,--nothing to fill up his life and make it worth living. All his occupations seemed to him very humdrum,--his garden, now ablaze with splendid bloom and colour, looked tawdry, he thought; it had been much prettier in spring-time when the lilac was in blossom. There was not much pleasure in punting,--the river was too glassy and glaring in the sun,--the water dripped greasily from the pole like warm oil--besides, why go punting when there was nobody but one's self to punt? Whether it was his own idle fancy, or a fact, he imagined that the village of St. Rest and its villagers had, in some mysterious way, become separated from him. Everybody in the place, or nearly everybody, had something to do for Miss Vancourt, or else for one or other of Miss Vancourt's guests. Everything went 'up to the Manor '--or came 'down from the Manor'--the village tradespeople were all catering for the Manor-- and Mr. Netlips, the grocer, driving himself solemnly ever to Riversford one day, came back with a board--'a banner with a strange device'--painted in blue letters on a white ground, which said: PETROL STORED HERE.
This startling announcement became a marvel and a fascination to the eyes of the villagers, every one of them coming out of their houses to look at it, directly it was displayed.
"You'll be settin' the 'ouse on fire, Mr. Netlips, I'm afraid," said Mrs. Frost, severely, putting her arms akimbo, and sniffing at the board as though she could smell the spirit it proclaimed--"You don't know nothink about petrol! An' we ain't goin' to have motor-cars often 'ere, please the Lord's goodness!"
Mr. Netlips smiled a superior smile.
"My good woman,"--he said, with his most magisterial air--"if you will kindly manage your own business, which is that of pruning the olive and uprooting the vine, and leave me to manage my establishment as the reversible movement of the age requires, it will be better for the equanimity of the gastritis."
"Good Lord!" and Mrs. Frost threw up her hands--"You're a fine sort of man for a grocer, with your reversibles and your gastritis! What in the world are you talking about?"
Mr. Netlips, busy with the unpacking of a special Stilton cheese which he was about to send 'up to the Manor,' waved her away with one hand.