The coupling of the ideas of Vessons and maidenhood was so funny that
Reddin burst out laughing and forgot his anger.
'Now, make that tea, Vessons.'
'She unna be here long?' asked Vessons craftily.
'Yes, for good.'
Hazel heard him.
'For good.' Did she want to be in this whispering house for good? Who did she want to be with for good? Not Reddin. Edward? But he had not the passion of the greenwood in him, the lust of the earth. He was not of the tremulously ecstatic company of wild, hunted creatures. If Reddin was definitely antagonistic, a hunter, Edward was neutral, a looker-on. They were not her comrades. They did not live her life. She had to live theirs. She wished she had never seen Reddin, never gone to Hunter's Spinney. Edward's house was at least peaceful.
'And what,' she heard Vessons say, 'will yer lordship's Sally Virtue say?'
She did not hear Reddin's reply; it was fierce and low. She wondered who Sally Virtue was, but she was too tired to think much about it. Afterwards Reddin had some whisky, and Vessons drank his health. Then Reddin picked out 'It's a Fine Hunting Day' on the old piano, and sang it in a rough tenor. Vessons joined in from the kitchen in a voice quite free from any music, and the roaring chorus echoed through the house.
'Eh, stop! I canna abide it!' cried Hazel; but they did not hear.
Vessons came and stood in the doorway with the teapot in one hand and the expression of acute agony he always wore when singing.