The long lazy afternoons of July, full of strong heat and the intense perfume of field-flowers, had never seemed so long and lazy to John Walden as during this particular summer. He felt as if he had nothing in the world to do,--nothing to fill up his life and make it worth living. All his occupations seemed to him very humdrum,--his garden, now ablaze with splendid bloom and colour, looked tawdry, he thought; it had been much prettier in spring-time when the lilac was in blossom. There was not much pleasure in punting,--the river was too glassy and glaring in the sun,--the water dripped greasily from the pole like warm oil--besides, why go punting when there was nobody but one's self to punt? Whether it was his own idle fancy, or a fact, he imagined that the village of St. Rest and its villagers had, in some mysterious way, become separated from him. Everybody in the place, or nearly everybody, had something to do for Miss Vancourt, or else for one or other of Miss Vancourt's guests. Everything went 'up to the Manor '--or came 'down from the Manor'--the village tradespeople were all catering for the Manor-- and Mr. Netlips, the grocer, driving himself solemnly ever to Riversford one day, came back with a board--'a banner with a strange device'--painted in blue letters on a white ground, which said: PETROL STORED HERE.

This startling announcement became a marvel and a fascination to the eyes of the villagers, every one of them coming out of their houses to look at it, directly it was displayed.