Theeighteenthcenturyhasitsdistinction.Thesehouseswerebuilt,say,ahundredandfiftyyearsago.Theroomsareshapely,theceilingshighoverthedoorwaysaroseoraram'sskulliscarvedinthewood.Eventhepanels,paintedinraspberry-colouredpaint,havetheirdistinction. Bonamytookupabillforahunting-crop. "Thatseemstobepaid,"hesaid. TherewereSandra'sletters. Mrs.DurrantwastakingapartytoGreenwich. LadyRocksbierhopedforthepleasure…. Listlessistheairinanemptyroom,justswellingthecurtaintheflowersinthejarshift.Onefibreinthewickerarm-chaircreaks,thoughnoonesitsthere. Bonamycrossedtothewindow.Pickford'svanswungdownthestreet.TheomnibuseswerelockedtogetheratMudie'scorner.Enginesthrobbed,andcarters,jammingthebrakesdown,pulledtheirhorsessharpup.Aharshandunhappyvoicecriedsomethingunintelligible.Andthensuddenlyalltheleavesseemedtoraisethemselves. "Jacob!Jacob!"criedBonamy,standingbythewindow.Theleavessankdownagain. "Suchconfusioneverywhere!"exclaimedBettyFlanders,burstingopenthebedroomdoor.