His voice came muffled through his curly brown beard. "Well, Finch, and how goes the practising?"
"Very well, thank you, sir," mumbled Finch.
"The other night I was in my garden quite late. About eleven o'clock. I was surprised to hear the organ. You are quite welcome to use it in the daytime, you know." Gentle reproof was in his tone.
"I rather like the practising at night, sir, if you don't mind."
His eyes moved from Mr. Fennel's beard to his grandmother's face. They exchanged a look of deep complicity like two conspirators. Her gaze was clear. The tea had revived her.
She said, setting down the empty cup: "I like the boy to practise at night. Night's the time for music—for love. . . . Afternoon's the time for tea—sociability. . . . Morning's the time for—er—tea. Another cup, Finch. Is there nothing to eat?"
Pheasant appeared with tea for Mr. Fennel, and Piers with the crumpets and honey. He was in white flannels.
"Ah," observed the rector, "it is nice to see you looking cool, Piers! You looked pretty hot the last time I saw you."
"Yes, that was a hot spell. Things are easing off now. Late August, you know. The crops are in. Small fruit over. Apples not begun."
"But there is always the stock, eh?"
"Yes, always the stock. I don't get much time for loafing. But this is Pheasant's birthday, and I'm celebrating it by a day off and a clean suit."
"Her birthday, is it?" said Mr. Fennel. "I wish I had known! I would have brought some offering, if only a nosegay."
Grandmother blinked rapidly; she smacked the honey on her lips. "Pheasant's birthday, eh? Why wasn't I told? Why was it kept from me? I like birthdays. I'd have given her a present." She turned toward Meg, Maurice, and Renny, who had just come into the room. "Did you know, my dears, that we're having a birthday party? It's Pheasant's birthday, and we're all dressed
