“I’m here,” said Zalia, “I’ve done, I’m coming at once.”
They stood talking a bit outside in the moonlight and then went in.
“Perhaps my man’ll come on,” said Treze. “A man is better than three women in illness; and Virginie’s coming too: I’ve been to tell her.”
“Well, well,” said Barbara, “who’d ever have thought it of Zeen!”
“Yes, friends, and never been ill in his life; and he turned seventy.”
Stanse mashed the potatoes; Zalia poured a drain of milk over them and hung them over the fire again.
“Have you all had your suppers?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Treze and Barbara and Mite.
“I haven’t,” said Stanse.
Zalia turned the steaming potato-mash into an earthen porringer and she and Stanse sat down to it. The others drank a fresh bowl of coffee.