“Why, certainly, sir. Would the coal-hammer do?” she asked.
“Fine!” was the man’s reply. “I’m so sorry to trouble you, but I’ve broken down, and I’m on my way to London.”
“I’m very sorry, sir,” exclaimed the woman, who fetched a heavy hammer from her kitchen. “Would the young lady care to come in and wait?”
“Oh, thanks. It’s awfully good of you,” said Ella. “The fact is I am a little fagged, and if I may sit down I shall be so grateful.”
“Certainly, miss. Just come in both of you for a moment,” and she led the way into a homely well-furnished room with a great open hearth where big logs were burning with a pleasant smell of smouldering beech.
“What a comfortable room you have here!” Kennedy remarked, looking at the thick Turkey carpet upon the floor, and the carved writing-table in the window.
“Yes, sir. This is a model dairy-farm. It belongs to Mr Anderson-James, who lives in Tunbridge Wells, and who comes here for week-ends sometimes, and for the shooting. I expect him here to-night. My husband farms for him, and I look after the place as housekeeper.”
“A model farm!” exclaimed Ella. “Oh! I’d so much like to see it. I wonder if your husband would allow me?”
“He’d be most delighted, miss.”
“Stevenson is my name, and this is my friend Mr Kershaw,” Ella said, introducing herself.