"
There seemed nothing but "the land" in some shape or form; they were
not very clear about it, but Bob was strenuously "keeping his ears
open"--like so many lads of his rank in the early months of 1919,
when the future that had seemed so indefinite during the years of war
suddenly loomed up, very large and menacing. Cecilia had less anxiety;
she had a cheerful faith that Bob would manage something--a three-roomed
cottage somewhere in the country, where he could look after sheep, or
crops, or something of the kind, while she cooked and mended for
him, and grew such flowers as had bloomed in the dear garden at
Fontainebleau. Sheep and crops, she was convinced, grew themselves, in
the main; a person of Bob's ability would surely find little difficulty
in superintending the process. And, whatever happened, nothing could be
worse than life in Lancaster Gate.
Neither of them ever thought of appealing to their father, either for
advice or for help. He remained, as he had always been to them, utterly
colourless; a kind of well-bred shadow of his wife, taking no part in
her hard treatment of Cecilia, but lifting not a finger to save her. He
did not look happy; indeed, he seldom spoke--it was not necessary,
when Mrs. Rainham held the floor. He had a tiny den which he used as a
smoking-room, and there he spent most of his time when at home, being
blessed in the fact that his wife disliked the smell of smoke, and
refused to allow it in her drawing-room.
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