“How small the world is!” Sophie cried. “Why, all my mother's people come from Veering Hollow. There must be some there still—the Lashmars. Did you ever hear of them?”
“I remember hearing that name, seems to me,” he answered, but his face was blank as the back of a spade.
A little before dusk a woman in grey, striding like a foot-soldier, and bearing on her arm a long pole, crashed through the orchard calling for food. George, upon whom the unannounced English worked mysteriously, fled to the parlour; but Mrs. Cloke came forward beaming. Sophie could not escape.
“We've only just heard of it;” said the stranger, turning on her. “I've been out with the otter-hounds all day. It was a splendidly sportin' thing—”
“Did you—er—kill?” said Sophie. She knew from books she could not go far wrong here.
“Yes, a dry bitch—seventeen pounds,” was the answer. “A splendidly sportin' thing of you to do. Poor old Iggulden—”
“Oh—that!” said Sophie, enlightened.
“If there had been any people at Pardons it would never have happened. He'd have been looked after. But what can you expect from a parcel of London solicitors?”
Mrs. Cloke murmured something.
“No. I'm soaked from the knees down. If I hang about I shall get chilled. A cup of tea, Mrs. Cloke, and I can eat one of your sandwiches as I go.” She wiped her weather-worn face with a green and yellow silk handkerchief.