Drownlands was a tall man, with a face like a hawk, and dark bushy brows that stood out over his eyes and the root of his nose.
'I am going,' answered Zita.
'Going? Who told you to go?'
'I am going to be an inconvenience no longer.'
'Who told you you were an inconvenience?'
'No one, but I know that I am not wanted. I thank you for what you have done, and will pay you.'
'Pay me? Who said a word about payment?'
'No one, but of course I pay. Mark Runham—I think that was his name—was kind to me,—that is to say, he spoke civil to me,—and I'm going to pay him for good words with a milk-strainer. You have done me good deeds, and I will pay you. Get into the van and pick out what you like up to five pounds. Do you want door-mats? There's a roll o' carpet, but I don't recommend it, and there's tinned goods.'
Drownlands stared at the girl. Then his eyes rested on the flail.