It was a calm evening and Osborn sat on the terrace, studying a printed notice.  Mrs. Osborn poured out coffee at a small table, and Gerald and Grace occupied the top of the broad steps to the lawn.  The sun was low, the air was cool, and except for the soft splash of a beck, a deep quietness brooded over the dale.

“It will be a good show,” Osborn remarked, reaching for a cup.  “I insisted on the rather early date, because if we had waited until the hay was in, we might have got wet weather.  Two or three objected, but I’m satisfied I took the proper line.  One must be firm with an argumentative committee.”

Gerald’s eyes twinkled as he looked at Grace.  Osborn generally was firm with people who gave way, and Gerald had heard some grumbling about his changing the date for the horse show.

“It’s the last time I’ll be president,” Osborn resumed.  “I had meant to resign, but Thorn could not take the post, Sir George is away, and a well-known local man is needed to give the thing a proper start.”

“Rather an expensive honor!” Gerald observed.  “The president’s expected to make up the shortage if the day is wet.”

“That was one reason for my fixing the meeting early, when we often get it fine,” Osborn replied naively.  “The expense is a drawback, but the committee would not let me drop out.”

“Mother and Grace will want new hats and clothes, and I expect the job will cost you more than you think.  You’ll have to give them a lead by bidding for the chapel sheep.”

“If that meddlesome fellow Drysdale is going to send his sheep to the show, the arrangement was made without my knowing,” Osborn replied angrily.

Mrs. Osborn looked disturbed, but Gerald laughed.  He rather enjoyed provoking his father when he thought it safe.  Drysdale was treasurer for a body of Nonconformists, who wanted to build a new chapel and, finding the farmers reluctant to give money, had asked for contributions from their flocks and herds.

“The idea was that the sale would be an extra attraction,” Gerald went on.  “Still, I admit it’s hard for you, because you hate chapels and will have to bid.  In fact, you’ll, no doubt, have to buy the sheep at a sentimental price and sell them at their value.”

“I believe in liberty of conscience and do not hate chapels,” Osborn rejoined.  “For all that, I own to a natural prejudice against people who attend such places, largely because they mix up their religious and political creeds.  It would be strange if I sympathized with their plans for robbing the landlords.”

“Anyhow, Drysdale means to bring his flock, and I’m afraid you’ll have to pay.  The situation has some humor.”

Osborn knitted his brows.  Hayes had been talking to him about the estate accounts and he had resolved to practise stern economy.  Economy was needful, unless he gave a fresh mortgage to pay the interest on his other debts; and here was an expense he had not bargained for.