uld dovetail excellently. She went into the kitchen where
Mrs. Penticost was ironing and the pleasant smell of warm linen hung
upon the air.

"I've decided I must go home, Mrs. Penticost," she said. "That letter
was to say my father is very ill, and I was only waiting till I'd seen
Mr. Ruan.... I've told him I must go to-morrow. I'm so sorry, but--"

"Ah!" interrupted Mrs. Penticost; "'tes as well--'twould be dull for 'ee
alone wi'out Mr. Ruan able to come so much about the place, and I
wouldn' have had en here with Miss Judy gone and you alone. You was
rare taken up wi' he!"

Blanche's vanity was too insatiable to spare Ishmael; she sighed
pathetically.

"Oh, Mrs. Penticost! you make me feel horribly guilty, for I'm afraid
it's all over," she said with simple earnestness, "but I couldn't
prevent it; and poor Mr. Ruan--"

"Don't 'ee go for to tell I about it!" broke in Mrs. Penticost; "'tes
downright ondecent in 'ee!"

Blanche flushed. "Horrid, insufferable woman!" she thought angrily as
she went upstairs. "How thankful I shall be to see the last of her!"

Opening her box, she began to throw her belongings in viciously. From
without came the crunch of Billy Penticost's boots as he crossed the
little yard and the clink of a pail set down; then the rhythmic sound of
pumping, so like the stertorous breathing of some vast creature, rose on
the morning air. A sudden loathing of country sights and sounds gripped
Blanche, and, tearing off her faded frock, she began to dress herself in
the one smart travelling gown she had brought with her.

"I don't care what Mrs. Penticost thinks!" she told her reflection in
the blurred looking-glass as she pulled a gold-coloured ribbon round her
waist; "I don't care what any of them think--they're just country
bumpkins, with no ideas in their heads beyond crops and cows!"

Without warning, a throb of memory assailed her: was it only a month ago
she had stood in this room in the moonlight, waiting to go and meet
Ishmael in the field? Her fingers shook a little as she took a few
blossoms of creamy-yellow toadflax he had picked for her out of their
vase and laid them tentatively against her gown. They harmonised to
perfection, but Blanche, after a moment's hesitation, flung them down.

"I'll buy some roses in Exeter," she thought; "they'll look more
suitable than hedge-flowers." It was her definite rejection of the
country and all it stood for; but on a gust of sentiment she picked u