away, and his pale grey eyes roved the countryside—when he had courage, he turned his back to us, shading his eyes to continue his scrutiny. He walked hurriedly, a few steps, then craned his neck, peering into the valley, and hastened a dozen yards in another direction, again stretching and peering about. Then he went indoors.
“He is pretending to look for somebody,” said Lettie, “but it’s only because he’s afraid we shall think he came out just to look at us”—and they laughed.
Suddenly a woman appeared at the gate; she had pale eyes like the mouse-voiced man.
“You’ll get Bright’s disease sitting on that there damp stone,” she said to Lettie, who at once rose apologetically.
“I ought to know,” continued the mouse-voiced woman, “my own mother died of it.”
“Indeed,” murmured Lettie, “I’m sorry.”
“Yes,” continued the woman, “it behooves you to be careful. Do you come from Strelley Mill Farm?” she asked suddenly of George, surveying his shameful déshabille with bitter reproof.
He admitted the imputation.
“And you’re going to leave, aren’t you?”
Which also he admitted.
“Humph!—we s’ll ’appen get some neighbours. It’s a dog’s life for loneliness. I suppose you knew the last lot that was here.”
Another brief admission.
“A dirty lot—a dirty beagle she must have been. You should just ha’ seen these grates.”
“Yes,” said Lettie, “I have seen them.”
