“Very pleased.”
Evidently the answer did not convey all that Maria had hoped for, after kneading her dough energetically for a few moments, she threw out negligently:
“I used to fancy at one time that you and Master Tony might be thinking of getting married some day. I suppose I was wrong.”
“Quite out of it, Maria.” Ann looked preternaturally serious. “And, anyway, I thought you hadn’t a very high opinion of matrimony and didn’t recommend it?”
“Well, I will say my ‘usband wasn’t one to make you think a lot of it,” acknowledged Maria, still kneading with vigour. “But there! There’s a power of difference in men, same as there is in yeast. Some starts working right away, and when you puts it down afore the fire your bread plums up beautiful. But I’ve known yeast what you couldn’t get to work as it should—stale stuff, maybe—and then the bread lies ‘eavy on your stomach. It’s like that with husbands. I dare say some of ‘em be good enough, but there’s some what isn’t, and George Coombe, he was one of that sort. But I don’t bear him no grudge. He was a bit plaguey to live with, but he died proper—with his face to the foe, as you may say, so I’ve no call to be ashamed of him.”
“I’m sure you haven’t,” agreed Ann warmly, and, leaving Maria to her bread-making, she ran off to feed the poultry. Much to her delight, her first brood of fluffy youngsters had hatched out the previous day.
A few hours later Tony wired “Arriving 3.30 train to-morrow.” And now “to-morrow” had become to-day, and Ann, alone in the ralli-cart, was sending Dick Turpin smartly along the road to the station.
The station at Silverquay, as is so often the case at a seaside town, was more or less of a common meeting ground for the inhabitants, and it was quite an unusual thing not to run across some one one knew there, exchanging a library book or purchasing a paper at the bookstall. So that it was no surprise to Ann, as she made her way on to the platform, to see Eliot Coventry coming towards her, an unfolded newspaper under his arm.
Otherwise, the platform was deserted. The train was not yet signalled, and neither stationmaster nor porter had emerged into view. Without absolute discourtesy it was impossible for Eliot to avoid speaking to her, and Ann’s heart quickened its beat a little as, after one swift, almost perturbed glance, he approached her. He looked rather tired, and there was a restless, thwarted expression in his eyes. So might look the eyes of a man who habitually denied himself the freedom to act as his inclinations demanded, and Ann was conscious of a sudden impulse of compassion that overcame the feeling of hurt pride which his recent attitude towards her had inspired. She responded to his greeting with a small, friendly smile, leavened with just a spice of mischief.
“So you’re not going to cut me altogether, then?”