"I thought you said the Plover."
"You didn't listen. Even you couldn't mistake one for the other, but I've scored off you. Helen, we shall want a good tea. I drove up with Zebedee, and he's coming here when he's finished with old Halkett."
She stood with a cooling iron in her hand. "I'll make some scones. I expect Eliza gives him horrid food. And for supper there's cold chicken and salad and plenty of pudding; but how shall we put up the horse?"
"Don't worry, Martha. He's only coming to tea. He won't stay long."
"Oh, yes, he will." She had no doubt of it. "I want him to. Make up the fire for me, Daniel, please." She folded away the ironing cloth and gathered up the little damp cuffs and collars she had not ironed. A faint smile curved her steady lips, for nothing gave her more happiness than serving those who had a claim on her, and Zebedee's claim was his lack of womankind to care for him and her own gratitude for his existence. He was the one person to whom she could give the name of friend, yet their communion had seldom expressed itself in confidences: the knowledge of it lay snugly and unspoken in her heart.
"He has never had anything to eat in this house before," she said with a solemnity which provoked Rupert to laughter.
"What a sacrament women make of meals!"
"I wish they all did," Daniel said in the bass notes of genuine feeling.
"I don't know why you keep that awful woman," Helen said.
"Don't start him on Eliza," Rupert begged. "Eliza and the intricacies of English law—"