She was drawing towards her the image of a red head, gallantly poised, thin hands that swept away the difficulties of the world, and laughing youthful eyes.
The butcher's cart rattled up the drive to the back door. They needed a leg of mutton. She must tell Violet.
She rose and locked away the papers.
"At least," she thought, "we know what he thinks of us all."
Chapter XIV
THE SHADOW ON THE WHEAT
It was the last week in July when, late on Saturday evening, John and Mary drove back together from Hardrascliffe market. As the dog-cart rounded the corner near the post office in Anderby, they saw a cluster of men on the bridge that spanned a dry watercourse winding through the village.
"More agitators," commented John. "That chap, Hunting, I suppose."
It was not "that chap Hunting," though he was there too, leaning against the low parapet of the bridge with an air of easy patronage. On the parapet, his vivid hair dulled in the failing light, but every angle and movement of his slim figure unmistakable, stood David Rossitur haranguing a lethargic group of labourers.