"You know Mr.Ambrose, Hilda?
We met on the hill." "He dragged me in," said Ridley, "or I should have been ashamed.

I'm dusty and dirty and disagreeable." He pointed to his boots which were white with dust, while a dejected flower drooping in his buttonhole, like an exhausted animal over a gate, added to the effect of length and untidiness.

He was introduced to the others.

Mr.Hewet and Mr.Hirst brought chairs, and tea began again, Susan pouring cascades of water from pot to pot, always cheerfully, and with the competence of long use.
"My wife's brother," Ridley explained to Hilda, whom he failed to remember, "has a house here, which he has lent us.

I was sitting on a rock thinking of nothing at all when Elliot started up like a fairy in a pantomime." "Our chicken got into the salt," Hewet said dolefully to Susan.