“ ’Tis a new roof as be needed, my lady.”
“Well, we’ll see about that presently. You got the port wine I sent you?”
“Yes, my lady. I owes my long life to ’ee, my lady.” He rose with difficulty. “Now I’ll march homealong.” He moved very stiffly to the window. Pawley rose also, intercepting him.
“You’re going a bit short, granfer.”
“ ’Tis my near leg, doctor.”
“My car is outside. I’ll run you down to your cottage. Take my arm.”
Lady Selina smiled pleasantly as her two guests left her presence. In a well-ordered village gentle and simple moved together in just such harmonious relations. A pleasurable glow pervaded the tissues of mind and body. Her people were properly cared for. And they responded—to use a phrase of Dr. Pawley’s—to humane treatment. The cheers of that fine summer’s afternoon still echoed in her ears.
She sat down at her desk to tackle, with appetite, a small pile of unanswered letters.
IV
She was writing leisurely, when a noise outside distracted her attention. Noise, honest mirth, was to be expected upon such an occasion. But common decency imposed limits upon that. Above the noise, accentuating it, rose bucolic laughter, the laughter of the ale-house. Lady Selina walked to the window, frowning. As she walked a sentence rang out: