The woman in grey whom Isoult had sighted, came to the mouth of the sand-pit, and saw these two wenches in their bright clothes watching her; and when one of them smiled and beckoned, Denise stood hesitating, and then smiled in return. But the smile was so weary and so sad, that Marpasse, that big woman with the head of a sunflower, jumped up, and went out into the road.
Marpasse looked Denise over from head to foot, yet behind the rude and bold-eyed stare there was the instinctive good nature of a coarse, generous, vagrant spirit. Marpasse’s self-introduction was like a friendly slap of the hand. She spoke straight out, and did not stop to parley.
“The roads might be strawed with peppercorns in this dry weather. It is hot in the sun too, on these hills.”
She glanced at Denise’s feet. The shoes were dusty and worn, with the pink toes showing. Marpasse laughed. She was a hardy soul, and her brown feet were like leather.
“If you are going to Guildford, you will not make the town to-night.”
“I know the road, I travelled it only a week ago.”
“God o’ me, mistress, so do I. Come in, and rest, we are two quiet women. And we have wine and no bread. If you have bread, I will strike a bargain.”
Denise looked from Marpasse to Isoult, that slip of ivory swathed in flaming red. The two women puzzled her. She had neither character nor calling to give them, but Marpasse looked buxom, and good-tempered, and Denise had no cause to trust people who pretended to great godliness. Moreover she was very weary and very footsore, and very thirsty, as Marpasse had hinted.
The first thing she did was to give Marpasse the bag she carried.
“There is bread there,” she said, “and some apples.”