“She doesn’t strike me as belonging to us.”
“Why not?”
“As I explained, it was my impression. She doesn’t strike me as being serious minded.”
“Anyway, she didn’t sit in a chair and theorise. She’s been through the real thing.”
Joan Gaunt had to interpose, for the gentlewoman of Horsham was showing signs of huffiness.
“Mrs. Falconer sent her with us.”
“Mrs. Falconer? That noble woman. I am satisfied. She should know.”
They left Horsham about five o’clock the following evening, their knapsacks well packed with food. The gentlewoman of Horsham dismissed them with the fervour of an early Christian, and held Joan Gaunt’s hands for fully half a minute.
“It has been such an experience for me. It has been like seeing one’s dearest ideals in the flesh. God bless you!”
Joan Gaunt went striding along the Guildford road like a veteran centurion, grim and purposeful. Lizzie Straker had a headache, and Eve offered to carry her knapsack and coat, but Lizzie Straker had a kind of soldier pride. She would carry her own kit till she dropped.