If Agatha could be found, Cicely was sure that she would prove the real right thing. Of course the Extons would know. Old Ephraim Exton had not waited a year to leave his farm. He was now a tenant of Wilverley, and likely to do well, breeding cattle and horses under happier conditions. His son, John, had enlisted. Cicely, anxious to serve a kind host, cycled next day, during off-time, to Exton’s farm, obtained from the old man Agatha’s address in London, and then, at Wilverley’s request, wrote to her at length, setting forth all details of duties, salary and so forth. Agatha wired back promptly from a typewriting establishment in the Strand, accepting the situation. Within a week she was at work in Wilverley’s office. Within a fortnight Wilverley acclaimed Agatha as a gem of purest ray serene.
He told Cicely, whenever they met (not too often), details about his work. The mandarins had just begun to recognise the possibility of famine. Wilverley, as an expert on agriculture, had been summoned and impressed, without salary, into the Government service. To grow two bushels of wheat where one grew in pre-war days engrossed his activities. To persuade others to tread in his steps had become—so Cicely noticed—a sort of obsession. No word of love slipped from his lips. And a Chandos respected this silence. But, inevitably, the girl came to full understanding of what work meant to Wilverley and others. Comparisons were forced upon her. Inevitably, also, during her leisure, intimacy developed between Agatha and her. Work in London had changed Agatha from a girl into a woman. Her wits and tongue had been sharpened upon the whetstone Competition. Cicely soon discovered that Agatha had discarded reserves of speech imposed upon villagers. She had become, perhaps, less of an individual and more of a type. She showed this in her clothes, and in her talk. Obviously she preened herself after the fashion of up-to-date typists and stenographers, acutely sensible of the cash value of appearances. On the first Sunday at Wilverley Church she wore a cony-seal coat and a hat that distracted the attention of every young woman who was not “quality.” Under the coat waggled a shepherd’s-plaid skirt, cut very short, exposing imitation-silk stockings and high fawn-coloured cloth-topped boots, which, so Cicely suspected, were not too large for her feet. Conscious of Cicely’s amused smile, Agatha assumed a defiant expression, as much as to say: “If you don’t like my costume I’m sorry for you. It’s quite the latest style, and paid for. Not by a rich mother, but by a hard-working, independent girl.” Cicely, greeting Agatha in the churchyard, observed without malice:
“I say, Agatha, you must have saved a bit in London.”
To this Agatha replied sharply, imputing censure:
“What I saved I spent. And why not?”
Perceiving that she had provoked resentment, Cicely hastened to assuage it.
“Why not?” she echoed. “I never was able to save a farthing out of my allowance.”
“We grow old and ugly soon enough,” said Agatha, in a softened tone. “I oughtn’t to have bought this coat, but that’s why I did it.”
Cicely’s laugh melted the little ice that remained. And Agatha’s gratitude for the word spoken to Wilverley was whole hearted. She said shyly:
“I wanted to come back to be near my own people and—and the Extons.”