They walked on again. "Tell me about this lady. Her name is Janet, but how must I address her?"
"Her name's Beaker—Janet Beaker. It's a good name for her. You'll see. She's something between that and a bird."
"Is she married?"
"Janet? I should think not. She's a farmer. She takes butter and eggs to the market every week. You can see her driving there, but you'd never think she saw you. She does, though, and there are men hereabouts that know it. Did my mother never tell you the tale about the drunken men? Oh no, she wouldn't. She pretends there are no such things. Well, she saw them in the town, and they'd had too much. They were from these parts, and she knew them, and she never said a word to them, so they say—but what can they have known about it?—nor so much as looked at them; but they came back at her cart-tail, all three of them, each blaming another, and not one of them can tell how it happened. And those three have been bad friends ever since. But they've never borne her any malice. If they did that it would be like giving her the credit."
"No, they couldn't do that. The women here seem to be in the ascendant."
"They are that. You wait till you see Janet."
"Miss Beaker. I must remember."
"She'll not expect to be called that. I don't believe she's been called that in her life. You can't say that. It's—all wrong."
"Really? Well, perhaps I can avoid saying anything. One often has to, and I admit formality seems out of place. Here things seem clear and simple."
"But they're not. Sometimes"—he took a deep breath—"I feel as if I'm in 'Macbeth.' It's a black feeling—ugly."