But there it was at last—the grey, roughly built house, that she still vaguely remembered, with the whitewashed porch, the stables and cowsheds opposite, the little garden to the side, the steep fell behind.
She stood with her hand on the pony, looking at the house in some perplexity. Not a soul apparently had heard her coming. Nothing moved in the farmhouse or outside it. Was everybody at church? But it was nearly one o'clock.
The door under the deep porch had no knocker, and she looked in vain for a bell. All she could do was to rap sharply with the handle of her whip.
No answer. She rapped again—louder and louder. At last in the intervals of knocking, she became conscious of a sound within—something deep and continuous, like the buzzing of a gigantic bee.
She put her ear to the door, listening. Then all her face dissolved in laughter. She raised her arm and brought the whip-handle down noisily on the old blistered door, so that it shook again.
"Hullo!"
There was a sudden sound of chairs overturned, or dragged along a flagged floor. Then staggering steps—and the door was opened.
"I say—what's all this—what are you making such a damned noise for?"
Inside stood a stalwart young man, still half asleep, and drawing his hand irritably across his blinking eyes.
"How do you do, Mr. Mason?"