Yet
here, at least, he would know that every penny went exaccurately where
it was meant to go, and accomplished the precise purpose it was
intended to accomplish.
And the more he thought about it, the more insistent grew the claims
of little Bourcelles, and the more that portentous Scheme for Disabled
Thingumabobs faded into dimness. The old Vicar's words kept singing in
his head: 'The world is full of Neighbours. Bring them all back to
Fairyland.' He thought things out in his own way and at his leisure.
He loved to wander alone among the mountains... thinking in this way.
His thoughts turned to his cousin's family, their expenses, their
difficulties, the curious want of harmony somewhere. For the
conditions in which the _famille anglaise_ existed, he had soon
discovered, were those of muddle pure and simple, yet of muddle on so
large a scale that it was fascinating and even exhilarating. It must
be lovely, he reflected, to live so carelessly. They drifted. Chance
forces blew them hither and thither as gusts of wind blow autumn
leaves. Five years in a place and then--a gust that blew them
elsewhere. Thus they had lived five years in a London suburb, thinking
it permanent; five years in a lonely Essex farm, certain they would
never abandon country life; and five years, finally, in the Jura
forests.
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