was like some sterling homespun piece, strong and sweet-smelling--she
was like a plot of the marsh earth, soft and rich and alive. He had
forgotten her barbaric tendency, the eccentricity of looks and conduct
which had at first repelled him--that aspect had melted in the
unsuspected warmth and softness he had found in her. He had been
mistaken as to her sexlessness--she was alive all through. She was still
far removed from his type, but her fundamental simplicity had brought
her nearer to it, and in time his good will would bring her the rest of
the way. Anyhow, he would look forward to meeting her again--perhaps he
would call at Ansdore, as she had proposed.

Joanna was not blind to her triumph, and it carried her beyond her
actual attainment into the fulfilment of her hopes. She saw Martin
Trevor already as her suitor--respectful, interested, receptive of her
wisdom in the matter of spades. She rejoiced in her courage in having
taken the first step--she would not have much further to go now. Now
that she had overcome his initial dislike, the advantages of the
alliance must be obvious to him. She looked into the future, and between
the present moment and the consummated union of North Farthing and
Ansdore, she saw thrilling, half-dim, personal adventures for Martin and
Joanna ... the touch of his hands would be quite different from the
touch of Arthur Alce's ... and his lips--she had never wanted a man's
lips before, except perhaps Socknersh's for one wild, misbegotten
minute ... she held in her heart the picture of Martin's well-cut,
sensitive mouth, so unlike the usual mouths of Brodnyx and Pedlinge,
which were either coarse-lipped or no-lipped.... Martin's mouth was
wonderful--it would be like fire on hers....

Thus Joanna rummaged in her small stock of experience, and of the
fragments built a dream. Her plans were not now all concrete--they
glowed a little, though dimly, for her memory held no great store, and
her imagination was the imagination of Walland Marsh, as a barndoor fowl
to the birds that fly. She might have dreamed more if her mind had not
been occupied with the practical matter of welcoming Ellen home for her
Christmas holidays.

Ellen, who arrived on Thomas-day, already seemed in some strange way to
have grown apart from the life of Ansdore. As Joanna eagerly kissed her
on the platform at Rye, there seemed something alien in her soft cool
cheek, in the smoothness of her hair under the dark boater ha