At the far end of Thorhaven towards the north was a little square house surrounded by a privet hedge. It had a green door under a sort of wooden canopy with two flat windows on either side, and seemed to stand there defying the rows and rows of terraces, avenues and meanish semi-detached villas which were creeping up to it. Behind lay the flat fields under a wide sky just as they had lain for centuries, with the gulls screaming across them inland from the mud cliffs, and so the cottage formed a sort of outpost, facing alone the hordes of jerry-built houses which threatened to sweep on and surround it.

The ladies who lived at the Cottage had once been nicknamed the Misses Canute which showed how plainly all this could be seen, as a sort of symbol, by anyone in the least imaginative; though it was a rather unsatisfactory curate from Manchester who actually gave them the name. No one felt surprised when he afterwards offended his bishop and went into the motor business, for he suffered from that constitutional ability to take people as seriously as they wished to be taken, which is so bad for any career.

Thus the curate departed, but his irreverence lived on after him for quite a long time, because many people like a mild joke which every one must see at once which is ready-made and for which they cannot be held responsible. So this became for a little while the family jest of Thorhaven, in no way spoiled by the fact that one sister had married a man called Bradford and was now a widow, while the other retained the paternal Wilson.

The two ladies were walking together on this twenty-sixth of March, by the side of the privet hedge which divided their garden from the large field beyond and hid from them everything which they did not care to see.

Miss Ethel’s name was entirely unsuited to her, but she had received it at a period when Ethels were as thick as blackberries in every girls’ school of any pretensions; and she was not in the very least like any Miss Amelia out of a book, though she possessed an elder sister and had reached fifty-five without getting married. On the contrary, she carried her head with great assurance on her spare shoulders, put her hair in curling pins each night as punctually as she said her prayers, and wore a well-cut, shortish tweed skirt with sensible shoes. Her face was thin and she had a delicately-shaped, rather long nose, together with a charmingly-shaped mouth that had grown compressed and lost its sweetness. A mole over her right eyebrow accentuated her habit of twitching that side of her face a little when she was nervous or excited.

But she was calm now, walking there with her sister, enjoying the keen air warmed with sunshine which makes life on such a day in Thorhaven sparkle with possibilities.

“I’m glad,” she said, “that we decided not to clip the hedge. It has grown up until it hides that odious Emerald Avenue entirely from the garden.”

“I can still see it from my bedroom window all the same,” said Mrs. Bradford.

“Don’t look out of your window, then!” retorted Miss Ethel sharply.

“You take care of that,” said Mrs. Bradford. “You have made the short blinds so high that I can scarcely see over them.”

“Do you want the people in those awful little houses to see you undressing?” demanded Miss Ethel.

“They couldn’t not unless they used a telescope or opera glasses,” said Mrs. Bradford. And she managed to convey, by some subtle inflexion of voice and expression though she was a dull woman that if you had been married, you were not so pernickitty about such things; and, finally, that if Emerald Avenue cared to go to that trouble it was welcome, because she remained always invested with the mantle of Hymen.

As a matter of fact, she had in a way spent her life for some years in echoing that romantic declaration of the lady in the play: “I have lived and loved.” Only she had never said anything so vivid as that she simply sat down on the fact for the rest of her life in a sort of comatose triumph.

Her husband had been a short, weasely man of bilious temperament; still, he sufficed; and his death at the end of two years from whooping-cough only added to Mrs. Bradford’s complacency. She came back home again to the Cottage, feeling as immeasurably superior to her unmarried sister as only a woman of that generation could feel, who had found a husband while most of her female relatives remained spinsters. She at once caused the late Mr. Bradford’s photograph to be enlarged the one in profile where the eyebrows had been strengthened, and the slight squint was of course invisible and she referred to him in conversation as “such a fine intellectual-looking man.” After a while, she began to believe her own words more and more thoroughly, so that at the end of ten years she would not have recognized him at all had he appeared in the flesh.

“At any rate,” she remarked, “our field won’t be built over.”

“No, thank goodness!” assented Miss Ethel emphatically, her left eyebrow twitching a little. “The Warringborns will never sell their land, whatever other people do. I remember grandfather telling us how he was ordered out of the room by old Squire Warringborn when he once went to suggest buying this field. Oh, no; the Warringborns won’t sell. Not the least fear of that.”

But she only talked in this way because she was afraid trying to keep her heart up, as she saw in her mind’s eye that oncoming horde of yellowish-red houses.

Before Mrs. Bradford could reply about the Warringborns, there came a sound of voices in the great field which stretched park-like beyond the privet hedge. “Butcher Walker putting some sheep in, I expect,” said Mrs. Bradford. “He has the lease of it now.”

But even as she spoke, her heavy jaw dropped and she stood staring. Miss Ethel swerved quickly round in the same direction, and her pale eyes focused. Neither of them uttered a sound as they looked at the square board which rose slowly above the privet hedge. They could not see the pole on which it was supported from that position in the garden, and so it appeared to them like a banner upheld by unseen hands.

“Well,” said Mrs. Bradford at last, “we mustn’t clip the hedge this year, that’s all. Then

“Hedge!” cried Miss Ethel. “What’s the use of talking about the hedge when our home is spoilt? Look! Read!” She pointed to that square object which flaunted now in all its glaring black and white newness a blot against the grey sky.

For sale

For the erection of villas and bungalows

Apply Messrs. Glatt & Wilson

Miss Ethel could not have felt deeper dismay if the square notice board on the pole had been indeed held aloft by the very Spirit of Change itself, with streaming hair still all aflame from rushing too closely past a bursting sun. Only those who hate change as she did could ever understand her dismay.

“We shall be driven out of our house. We shall have to leave,” she said, very pale. “After all these years, we shall have to go. We can’t stand all their nasty little back ways!”

“Where are we to go to?” said Mrs. Bradford. She paused a moment. “It’s the same everywhere. Besides, the houses are not built yet.”

There was nothing for them to do but to turn their backs on the board and walk quietly away, filled with that aching home-sickness for the quiet past which thousands of middle-aged people were feeling at that moment all over Europe. Everything was so different, and the knowledge of it gave to Miss Ethel a constant sense of exasperated discomfort, like the ache of an internal disease which she could not forget for a moment.

“I expect,” she said after a while, “that Mrs. Graham will once more tell us to let ourselves go with the tide and not worry. Thank God, I never was a supine jelly-fish, and I can’t start being one now.”

“She was talking about servants,” said Mrs. Bradford, who was troubled, but not so troubled, because she took things differently. “I expect she only meant we should never get another like Ellen; but we can’t expect to do so after having her for eleven years.”

“No. We are lucky to have Ellen’s niece coming. But I wish she were a little older,” said Miss Ethel. “Nineteen is very young.”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Bradford, letting the conversation drop, for she was not very fond of talking. And in the silence they looked back; and to both of them nineteen seemed a rather ridiculous and foolish age even for a servant, who is supposed to be rather young.

Then Miss Ethel began again talking on to try and banish the insistent vision in her mind’s eye of that square board over the privet hedge, which she knew herself foolish to dwell upon. “I wish Caroline had not lived with Ellen’s sister and gone out as a day-girl to that little grocer’s shop in the Avenue. I’m afraid that may have spoilt her. But it is Caroline or nobody. We may want a sensible middle-aged maid, but in these days it isn’t what you want it’s what you can get.”

Mrs. Bradford nodded; and again they felt all over them that resentful home-sickness for the past.

“One thing we must begin as we mean to go on,” said Miss Ethel. “If mistresses were only firmer there would never be such ridiculous proceedings as one hears about; but they are so afraid of losing maids that they put up with anything. No wonder the girls find this out and cease to have any respect for them. Look at Mrs. Graham! A latch-key allowed, and no caps or aprons. That’s swimming with the tide, with a vengeance.”

“There’s no fear of Caroline wanting anything of that sort,” said Mrs. Bradford. “Ellen’s sister, Mrs. Creddle, is as steady as Ellen.”

“She’d need to be, with four children on her hands, and a husband like one of those coco-nuts at Hull fair that have the husk partly left on,” said Miss Ethel. “I never could understand how a nice-looking girl, such as Mrs. Creddle was then, came to marry such a man.”

Mrs. Bradford looked down at her fat hands and smiled a little, seeming to see things in the matrimonial philosophy that no spinster was likely to understand. Then after opening the door they both turned again, from force of long habit, to look across the garden, and saw the square board more plainly now than they had done when close under the hedge. It stood there in the midst of the grass field as if it were leading on while in the distance the wind from the east was blowing the smoke like flags from the long row of chimney-tops in Emerald Avenue.

At last Miss Ethel said with a sort of doubtful hopefulness, as if keeping her courage up before those advancing hordes: “Perhaps nobody will want to buy the land there. Always heard it was boggy.”

Mrs. Bradford shook her head silently and went in, followed by her sister: in a world where all things were now odiously possible, one had to take what came and make the best of it.

But Miss Ethel already experienced the faint beginning of a state of suspense which was never to cease, day or night, though at times she was not conscious of it. She fancied that every person who crossed the field was an intending buyer, and woke with a start when the old wardrobe gave the sudden “pop!” in the night to which she had been long accustomed, thinking for the moment that she heard the first stroke of a workman’s hammer. In truth she was run down with doing most of the work of the house since Ellen’s departure to look after an invalid mother, besides suffering from several severe colds during the winter, so that the possibility of new houses being built close at hand had got on her nerves, and gained an almost ridiculous importance.

She and her sister had thought, like so many others, that they could escape change by living in one place, but it had followed them, as it always inexorably does. Shut their eyes as they might, they had to see neighbours leaving, neighbours dying. And even those who remained did not continue the same. One day Miss Ethel was obliged to notice how grey little Mrs. Baker at the newspaper shop was going and that brought to mind that she had been married thirty years come Christmas. Thirty years! It seemed incredible that so much of life had slipped almost imperceptibly away.

All the same, she ached to stand still. She simply could not realize that perhaps some other generation would look back on hers as she did on the past. One Saturday the following lines in the local corner of the Thorhaven and County Weekly Budget between an advertisement of a new poultry food and a notice of a fine goat for sale did express a little of her state of mind, though they were written by a retired schoolmistress in the detested Emerald Avenue

The world is full of hurry and change,
And everything seems so new and strange;
But it’s stranger still that one of these days
They’ll call what we’re doing, “the dear old ways.”

It remained incredible, whatever reason might tell her, that anything more iconoclastic could be hidden in the womb of time than the Warringborns selling their land and Mrs. Graham letting her maid go to dances on the promenade, with a powdered face and a latch-key.