Jenny was grateful and glad. Mrs. Godfrey fetched her the milk in a glass from the dairy, then went back to her ironing. She was a stout, middle-aged woman, bearing her years in a way that showed they had not been made heavy by too much work or too much childbearing. She could still show her good white teeth, and her hair had more gloss than grey in it. She talked comfortably about the weather and the haymaking till her son came back with the two most presentable of Lizzie’s family.
“If you’ll be kind enough to take one of these little chaps, Miss Alard....”
They spent twenty minutes or so over the puppies, and in the end Jenny made her choice and accepted his gift.
“He won’t be ready to leave his mother for a week or two yet.”
“I’ll come back and fetch him.”
“Won’t you come before then?”
They were alone in the great kitchen—Mrs. Godfrey had gone into the inner room to heat her iron, and they stood between the table and the window, Jenny still holding the puppy in her arms. The moment stamped itself upon her memory like a seal. She would always remember that faint sweet scent of freshly ironed linen, that crack of a hidden fire, that slow ticking of a clock—and Ben Godfrey’s face before her, so brown, strong and alive, so lovable in its broad comeliness. The last of her reserve dropped from her—he ceased to be a problem, a choice, a stranger; he became just a fond, friendly man, and her heart went out to him as to a lover, forgetting all besides.
“Yes, of course I’ll come”—she said gently—“when ever you want me.”
§ 16
The rest of that day did not seem quite real—perhaps because she would not let herself think of what she had done in the morning, what she had committed herself to. And when the day was over and she lay flat on her back in her bed, with the bedclothes up to her chin, the morning still seemed like something she had watched or dreamed rather than something she had lived.