"Ay. It's not in the blood, you see. Old Armstrong was a good hedger and thatcher, but his son's not bred to be a farmer."
"No. I suppose not."
Mary moved about the room, setting straight the cushions and bottles and a vase of crimson roses. If only she knew! If only John would show whether he had seen her that afternoon—her and David. The doctor said it was a slight stroke brought about by riding in the hot fields after a heavy meal. But a shock might cause the same sort of thing. And she did not know what he had seen.
"Sarah Bannister sent you some peaches. Would you like one for lunch?"
"I might as well. Any more about that chap Hunting lately?"
"No. I don't think so. Things seem fairly quiet."
"Rossitur still here?"
Mary clutched at the mantelpiece, where she had been replacing a fallen rose in the vase.
"Mr. Rossitur? No. Why should he be? He only came for that night we saw him on the bridge, and left again on the Monday."
"Did you ever see him to speak to?"