"That's him," said Ernie keenly. "Do you knaw him?"
"He was over at Auston last summer," answered Ruth, "lecturin we got to fight Germany or something. I went, but I didn't pay no heed to him. No account talk, I call that."
Together they dropped down Borough Lane and turned to the left along the Moot where dwelt the workers of Old Town—a few in flint cottages set in gardens, rank with currant bushes, a record of the days, not so long ago, when corn flowed down both sides of Water Lane, making a lake of gold between the village on the hill and the Sea-houses by the Wish; and most in the new streets of little red houses that looked up, pathetically aware of their commonness, to the calm dignity of the old church upon the Kneb above.
At one of these latter Ernie stopped and made believe to fumble with a key. Ruth, who had not seen her new home, was thrilling quietly, as she had been throughout the journey, though determined not to betray her emotion to her mate.
The door opened and they entered.
A charming voice from the kitchen greeted them.
"Ah, there you are—punctual to the minute!"
A woman, silver-haired and gracious, turned from deft busy-ness at the range.
"Oh, Mrs. Trupp!" cried Ruth, looking about her.
The table was laid already, and gay with flowers; the fire lit, the kettle on the boil, the supper ready.