zon for the last two miles
suddenly turned, as if by an enchanter's wand, into a fair-sized town of
red roofs and walls, with a great church tower raking above the trees.

Joanna drove straight to the Crown, where Thomas Godden had "put up"
every market day for twenty years. She ordered her dinner--boiled beef
and carrots, and jam roll--and walked into the crowded coffee room,
where farmers from every corner of the three marshes were already at
work with knife and fork. Some of them knew her by sight and stared,
others knew her by acquaintance and greeted her, while Arthur Alce
jumped out of his chair, dropping his knife and sweeping his neighbour's
bread off the table. He was a little shocked and alarmed to see Joanna
the only woman in the room; he suggested that she should have her dinner
in the landlady's parlour--"you'd be quieter like, in there."

"I don't want to be quiet, thank you," said Joanna.

She felt thankful that none of the few empty chairs was next Alce's--she
could never abide his fussing. She sat down between Cobb of Slinches and
a farmer from Snargate way, and opened the conversation pleasantly on
the subject of liver fluke in sheep.

When she had brought her meal to a close with a cup of tea, she found
Alce waiting for her in the hotel entrance.

"I never thought you'd come to market, Joanna."

"And why not, pray?"

The correct answer was--"Because you don't know enough about beasts,"
but Alce had the sense to find a substitute.

"Because it ain't safe or seemly for a woman to come alone and deal with
men."

"And why not, again? Are all you men going to swindle me if you get the
chance?"

Joanna's laugh always had a disintegrating effect on Alce, with its loud
warm tones and its revelation of her pretty teeth--which were so white
and even, except the small pointed canines. When she laughed she opened
her mouth wide and threw back her head on her short white neck. Alce
gropingly put out a hairy hand towards her, which was his nearest
approach to a caress. Joanna flicked it away.

"Now a-done do, Arthur Alce"--dropping in her merriment into the lower
idiom of the Marsh--"a-done do with your croaking and your stroking
both. Let me go my own ways, for I know 'em better than you can."

"But these chaps--I don't like it--maybe, seeing you like this amongst
them, they'll get bold with you."

"Not they! How can you mention such a thing? There was Mr. Cobb and Mr.
Godfrey at dinner, talking to