Men were pressing round, farmers and graziers and butchers, drawn by the spectacle of Joanna Godden at war with her looker in the middle of Lydd market. Alce touched her arm appealingly—
"Come away, Joanna," he murmured.
She flung round at him.
"Keep dear—leave me to settle my own man."
There was a titter in the crowd.
"I know bad meat from good, surelye," continued Fuller, feeling that popular sentiment was on his side—"I should ought to, seeing as I wur your father's looker before you wur your father's daughter."
"You were my father's looker, but after this you shan't be looker of mine. Since you won't mind what I say or take orders from me, you can leave my service this day month."
There was a horror-stricken silence in the crowd—even the lowest journeyman butcher realized the solemnity of the occasion.
"You understand me?" said Joanna.
"Yes, ma'am," came from Fuller in a crushed voice.