s hat as
Sophie passed.

"Your people," said the clear voice of Lady Conant in her ear.

"I suppose so," said Sophie, blushing, for they were within two yards of
her; but it was not a question.

"Then that child looks as if it were coming down with mumps. You ought
to tell the mother she shouldn't have brought it to church."

"I can't leave 'er behind, my lady," the woman said. "She'd set the
'ouse afire in a minute, she's that forward with the matches. Ain't you,
Maudie dear?"

"Has Dr. Dallas seen her?"

"Not yet, my lady."

"He must. You can't get away, of course. M-m! My idiotic maid is coming
in for her teeth to-morrow at twelve. She shall pick her up--at Gale
Anstey, isn't it?--at eleven."

"Yes. Thank you very much, my lady."

"I oughtn't to have done it," said Lady Conant apologetically, "but
there has been no one at Pardons for so long that you'll forgive my
poaching. Now, can't you lunch with us? The vicar usually comes too.
I don't use the horses on a Sunday"--she glanced at the Brazilian's
silver-plated chariot. "It's only a mile across the fields."

"You--you're very kind," said Sophie, hating herself because her lip
trembled.

"My dear," the compelling tone dropped to a soothing gurgle, "d'you
suppose I don't know how it feels to come to a strange county--country
I should say--away from one's own people? When I first left the
Shires--I'm Shropshire, you know--I cried for a day and a night. But
fretting doesn't make loneliness any better. Oh, here's Dora. She did
sprain her leg that day."

"I'm as lame as a tree still," said the tall maiden frankly. "You ought
to go out with the otter-hounds, Mrs. Chapin. I believe they're drawing
your water next week."

Sir Walter had already led off George, and the vicar came up on the
other side of Sophie. There was no escaping the swift procession or the
leisurely lunch, where talk came and went in low-voiced eddies that
had the village for their centre. Sophie heard the vicar and Sir Walter
address her husband lightly as Chapin! (She also remembered many women
known in a previous life who habitually addressed their husbands as
Mr. Such-an-one.) After lunch Lady Conant talked to her explicitly of
maternity as that is achieved in cottages and farm-houses remote from
aid, and of the duty thereto of the mistress of Pardons.

A gate in a beech hedge, reached across triple lawns, let them out
before tea-time into the unkempt south side of their land.

"I