The stranger stood there like a silence in her black cloak.
"Eh?" came the shrill cry from the distance.
He shouted his question again.
"We've got what's on t' table," answered Tilly's shrill voice out of the dairy.
Brangwen looked at the table. There was a large pat of butter on a plate, almost a pound. It was round, and stamped with acorns and oak-leaves.
"Can't you come when you're wanted?" he shouted.
"Why, what d'you want?" Tilly protested, as she came peeking inquisitively through the other door.
She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes, but said nothing.
"Haven't we any butter?" asked Brangwen again, impatiently, as if he could command some by his question.
"I tell you there's what's on t' table," said Tilly, impatient that she was unable to create any to his demand. "We haven't a morsel besides."
There was a moment's silence.
The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached manner of one who must think her speech first.
"Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have come to trouble you."
She could not understand the entire lack of manners, was slightly puzzled. Any politeness would have made the situation quite impersonal. But here it was a case of wills in confusion. Brangwen flushed at her polite speech. Still he did not let her go.
"Get summat an' wrap that up for her," he said to Tilly, looking at the butter on the table.
And taking a clean knife, he cut off that side of the butter where it was touched.
His speech, the "for her," penetrated slowly into the foreign woman and angered Tilly.
"Vicar has his butter fra Brown's by rights," said the insuppressible servant-woman. "We s'll be churnin' to-morrow mornin' first thing."
"Yes"—the long-drawn foreign yes—"yes," said the Polish woman, "I went to Mrs. Brown's. She hasn't any more."
Tilly bridled her head, bursting to say that, according to the etiquette of people who bought butter, it was no sort of manners whatever coming to a place cool as you like and
