"I didn't see quite rightly, Mr. Jarman, my eyes being weak. Young?"
"And dark and Irish. His eyes are weak to the extent of blue glasses."
"I didn't see them, sir."
"No, poor chap. He broke them crossing the Common, left his baggage in London, and got lost in our country."
"Oh, he'll know it soon, Mr. Jarman. I'm an Essex woman myself--Billericay way--and the country is easy. What's the gentleman's name, Sir?"
"Desmond," said Eustace, lying with an unmoved face. "Desmond O'Neil."
"I'll remember, sir."
"And, oh, Miss Cork, I shouldn't mention about his late arrival and loss of baggage if I were you. The Irish are sensitive."
"As well I know from politics, Mr. Jarman. No, sir, I'll say nothing."
Miss Cork was a tall, lean woman with watery grey eyes and grey hair screwed into a cast-iron knob behind. Her lips were thin, and her nose red by reason of tight-lacing. Miss Cork had a good figure and improved it, in her own opinion, by making her waist smaller. She usually wore a grey dress with cloth slippers, and moved like a shadow. For many years she had been with Eustace, who had produced her from a London police-court where she was being charged with vagrancy. But he never told anyone this, and Miss Cork bore a high character. But she was not popular, as she never gossiped. And a woman who does not gossip in a village is not fit companion for those who want to know their neighbours' affairs. Eustace knew that she would hold her tongue. Nevertheless, he was glad that her limited vision had not been able to take in Frank Lancaster as he had been.