I
saw the difference at once the very next day, the second
day of my visit, when Beverly-Jones took round young
Poppleton, the man that I mentioned above who will
presently give a Swiss yodel from a clump of laurel bushes
to indicate that the day's fun has begun.
Poppleton I had known before slightly. I used to see him
at the club. In club surroundings he always struck me as
an ineffable young ass, loud and talkative and perpetually
breaking the silence rules. Yet I have to admit that in
his summer flannels and with a straw hat on he can do
things that I can't.
"These big gates," began Beverly-Jones as he showed
Poppleton round the place with me trailing beside them,
"we only put up this year."
Poppleton, who has a summer place of his own, looked at
the gates very critically.
"Now, do you know what _I'd_ have done with those gates,
if they were mine?" he said.
"No," said Beverly-Jones.
"I'd have set them two feet wider apart; they're too
narrow, old chap, too narrow." Poppleton shook his head
sadly at the gates.
"We had quite a struggle," said Beverly-Jones, "before
we finally decided on sandstone."
I realized that he had one and the same line of talk that
he always used.
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