{"product_id":"2940013693067","title":"Old Pybus","description":"Mr. Conrad Pybus collected pictures, and being the possessor of two\u003cbr\u003e\"Constables,\" and three \"Cotmans,\" he had some right to stretch out\u003cbr\u003ea large hand and to indicate the picture that was hung against the\u003cbr\u003eblue horizon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"That's Castle Craven--over there.  Rather like a thing by\u003cbr\u003eConstable.  What?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn spite of the largeness of his hand and the largeness of the car\u003cbr\u003ein which he sat, he spoke with an assurance which failed of its\u003cbr\u003eeffect.  He was shy of the woman beside him.  She was leaning\u003cbr\u003eforward in the coupé, her dark thinness and her pallor joining to\u003cbr\u003edisconcert Mr. Conrad Pybus's vague yet ample correctness.  She was\u003cbr\u003esmiling, and when she smiled the angles of her long and expressive\u003cbr\u003emouth curved deep into either cheek.  It was a curious smile,\u003cbr\u003eshowing a gleam of teeth, but not as the conventional beauty\u003cbr\u003edisplays them, all to the front as though advertising a musical\u003cbr\u003ecomedy or a dentifrice.  As a small nephew put it:  \"Aunt Ursy\u003cbr\u003elaughs in her cheeks.\"  She did, with a kind of slanting, upward,\u003cbr\u003eironic swiftness, as though the two corners of her mouth were\u003cbr\u003eretracted by a couple of hooks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMr. Pybus's hand, sheathed in wash-leather, seemed to fascinate\u003cbr\u003eher.  Extended, palm turned towards the landscape, it suggested the\u003cbr\u003ehand of a policeman on point duty, pontifically presenting a whole\u003cbr\u003estreet to some hesitating motorist.  But with the gloved hand the\u003cbr\u003eillusion ended.  The blue-and-white striped shirt-cuff, nicely\u003cbr\u003eprotruding from the blue sleeve, marked the particular Pybus.  No\u003cbr\u003eman could have been better tailored.  His hats came from Pont's in\u003cbr\u003eSt. James's Street.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe examined him with one swift and inclusive stare while he\u003cbr\u003eremained for a moment in that attitude of civic dignity, presenting\u003cbr\u003eher to Castle Craven, that hill town, grey under a kind of blue\u003cbr\u003emurk, the lapis of a horizon that was tumbled with clouds.  She saw\u003cbr\u003ethe red gold gleam of a wheat field, ripe on a green hillside.  The\u003cbr\u003eworld seemed a welter of hill-tops, green and grey and silver, or\u003cbr\u003ebewigged with smooth beech woods.  The distances appeared immense.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut beside her and very much in the foreground was Conrad Pybus,\u003cbr\u003esolid and obvious, all black and white, a heavy man who could not\u003cbr\u003esit comfortably in her presence.  He had been trying so hard to\u003cbr\u003eimpress her.  He wanted her to marry him.  And she, with the\u003cbr\u003emerciless eyes of a woman who had no illusions, saw him as a\u003cbr\u003eglorified and rather flashy stockbroker's clerk, a morning-paper\u003cbr\u003eman, worth perhaps fifteen thousand pounds a year.  He had a place--\u003cbr\u003eChlois Court--in Berkshire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe allowed herself to agree with him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"All those clouds massed up there.  Rather fine.  How much have we\u003cbr\u003edone?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Oh--about seventy.  You wouldn't know it in this 'bus, would you?\u003cbr\u003eAn hour and a half.  Not so bad.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis large, white face, with its unblinking blue eyes and a very\u003cbr\u003eblack moustache, reminded her somehow of the face of a chef.  But\u003cbr\u003ewhy a chef?  How oddly one associated things!  Only--that particular\u003cbr\u003esort of face seemed to call for a chef's white cap.  She smiled.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You are going to give me lunch there?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis right hand reached for the gear lever.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Of course.  Saracen's Head.  I wired them before we started.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe car went softly down into the valley where the Brent ran under\u003cbr\u003ethe grey span of an old bridge between the steep greenness of\u003cbr\u003eoverhanging trees.  \"Aunt Ursy\" was peering into a little mirror.\u003cbr\u003eShe had one of those ivory skins that are proof against sunburn or\u003cbr\u003eworry, and neither her skin nor her hair needed attention.  Conrad\u003cbr\u003ePybus was showing her how he could handle a car on the narrow\u003cbr\u003esteeps of the ascent into Castle Craven.  He was very conscious of\u003cbr\u003eher sitting there, squinting at her sleek face in that provoking\u003cbr\u003elittle mirror.  Yes, she was \"it,\" as much \"it\" as the car he was\u003cbr\u003edriving, but she would take more handling.  Oh--yes--much more\u003cbr\u003ehandling.  He might be a new man, but Chlois Court had a ripe and\u003cbr\u003eproper atmosphere.","brand":"WDS Publishing","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":47083151425776,"sku":"2940013693067","price":0.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0737\/7593\/9824\/files\/2940013693067_p0.jpg?v=1763584340","url":"https:\/\/shop-qa.barnesandnoble.com\/products\/2940013693067","provider":"Barnes \u0026 Noble (DEV)","version":"1.0","type":"link"}