"No, never. I was never at a play but once, which they did at the Monastery at Rye in aid of Lady Buller's Fund when we was fighting the Boers. 'Our Flat' it was called, and all done by respectable people—not an actor or an actress among 'em."
What on earth had he picked up?
"Do you live at Rye?"
"I live two mile out of it—Ansdore's the name of my place—Ansdore Manor, seeing as now I've got both Great and Little Ansdore, and the living's in my gift. I put in a new parson last year."
This must be a remarkable woman, unless she was telling him the tale.
"I went over to Rye on Sunday," he said. "Quaint old place, isn't it? Funny to think it used to be on the seashore. They say there once was a battle between the French and English fleets where it's all dry marsh now."
Joanna thrilled again—that was like Martin, telling her things, old things about the Marsh. The conversation was certainly being conducted on very decorous lines. She began to lose the feeling of impropriety which had disturbed her at first. They sat talking about the neighbourhood, the weather, and—under Joanna's guidance—the prospects of the harvest, for another ten minutes, at the end of which the band went off for their "interval."
The cessation of the music and scattering of the crowd recalled Joanna to a sense of her position. She realized also that it was quite dark—the last redeeming ray had left the sky. She stood up—
"Well, I must be getting back."
"Where are you staying?"