ms of giant sheep upon her innings--all appealed to something
fundamental in her which was big and boastful. She even liked the gossip
with which she was surrounded, the looks that were turned upon her when
she drove into Rye or Lydd or New Romney--the "there goes Joanna Godden"
of folk she passed. She had no acute sense of their disapproval; if she
became aware of it she would only repeat to herself that she would "show
'em the style"--which she certainly did.

Sec.11

Arthur Alce was very much upset by the gossip about Joanna.

"All you've done since you started running Ansdore is to get yourself
talked about," he said sadly.

"Well, I don't mind that."

"No, but you should ought to. A woman should ought to be modest and
timid and not paint her house so's it shows up five mile off--first your
house, and then your waggons--it'll be your face next."

"Arthur Alce, you're very rude, and till you learn to be civil you can
keep out of my house--the same as you can see five mile off."

Alce, who really felt bitter and miserable, took her at her word and
kept away for nearly a fortnight. Joanna was not sorry, for he had been
highly disapproving on the matter of the Spanish sheep, and she was
anxious to carry out her plan in his absence. A letter to Garlinge Green
had revealed the fact that Socknersh's late master had removed to a farm
near Northampton; he still bred Spanish sheep, but the risk of Joanna's
venture was increased by the high price she would have to pay for
railway transport as well as in fees. However, once she had set her
heart on anything, she would let nothing stand in her way. Socknersh was
inclined to be aghast at all the money the affair would cost, but Joanna
soon talked him into an agreeable "Surelye."

"We'll get it all back," she told him. "Our lambs ull be the biggest at
market, and ull fetch the biggest prices too."

It pleased Joanna to talk of Socknersh and herself as "we," though she
would bitterly have resented any idea of joint responsibility in the
days of Fuller. The rites of lambing and shearing had not dimmed her
faith in the high priest she had chosen for Ansdore's most sacred
mysteries. Socknersh was a man who was automatically "good with sheep."
The scared and trembling ewes seemed to see in him a kind of affinity
with themselves, and lay still under his big, brown, quiet hands. He had
not much "head," but he had that queer inward kinship with animals which
is sometimes f