"I was remarking that Marigold must be hungry, Pamela."
"No, not very," Marigold answered. "I had some Banbury cakes in the train. There was a gentleman in the same carriage with me who was so kind, and he would make me have them."
"That was thoughtful of him," Miss Holcroft said.
"Did he get out at Exeter?" Miss Pamela asked.
"Yes, Aunt Pamela. He lives near here. He said his name was Joseph Adams, and that his friends called him 'Farmer Jo!'"
Miss Pamela's lips took a scornful curve, and she raised her eyebrows. Marigold flushed.
"He was so very kind to me," she said hastily. "I am sure he must be a good man."
Miss Pamela did not seem to think this statement required any answer, and there was a brief silence, daring which Marigold glanced around the room. The furniture of solid mahogany was heavy and handsome, the carpet rich and soft, and the walls were hung with oil paintings. The silver on the sideboard was massive and finely chased. Everything bespoke wealth and plenty. Marigold felt as though she must be dreaming, and that presently she would find herself in the little sitting-room at home with its cheap wall-paper, and thin, faded carpet. She awoke from her reverie with a start, as Miss Holcroft addressed her—
"So you have never been to school, Marigold?"
"Never, Aunt Mary."