“A Welshwoman married to a Scotch husband, possibly,” suggested Charlotte. “The Welsh smoke.”
“I’ll make her a Welshwoman,” said Maria gaily, “with a man’s coat, and a man’s hat. But, there’s—there’s another now. George, it is Margery!”
“Yes,” said Mr. George composedly. “I saw her go in half an hour ago. How smart she is! She must be paying morning calls.”
They laughed at this, and watched Margery. A staid woman of middle age, who had been maid to the late Mrs. Godolphin. Margery dressed plainly, but she certainly looked smart to-day, as the sun’s rays fell upon her. The sun was unusually bright, and Charlotte Pain remarked it, saying it made her eyes ache.
“Suspiciously bright,” observed George Godolphin.
“Suspiciously?”
He flirted the ashes from his cigar with his finger. “Suspicious of a storm,” he said. “We shall have it, ere long. See those clouds. They look small and inoffensive; but they mean mischief.”
Charlotte Pain strolled away over the meadows towards the side path on which Margery was advancing. George Godolphin leaped from his seat, apparently with the intention of following her. But first of all he approached Maria, and bent to look at her progress.
“Make the farm—as you call it—very conspicuous, Maria, if you are going to keep the sketch as a memento,” said he.
“Is it not a farm?”