Sarah listened with frowning brows.
Really, now the fire was over, and the police officers interviewed and the Irish murderer and Mary's discharged beastman arrested, it was time to talk about something else. She passed her cup to Mary.
"More tea, please. And, if you have any water, I should like it weaker. My digestive organs are not made of cast iron, and I don't suppose that a heavy meal at this house will exactly improve their condition. Tom, if you've had enough, you'd better go and wake that chauffeur. We'll be moving."
"Oh, no. You'll stay the night here, please, Sarah," said Mary. "Violet's putting some sheets on the spare room bed now. I found her crying all over Fred Stephens in the kitchen, and decided she had better have something else to do. Fred was very tired. He's been splendid to-night. In fact, they all have."
"Oh, very well. I suppose that man will wait. I'm sure I don't want him to stay, though, if he's going to charge us by the hour, I'd rather he took the car back to Market Burton, and you could give us a lift to the station to-morrow. I hate those nasty, smelly cars, always breaking down just when you want them most. What amazes me is that we didn't have a puncture to-night."
She straightened the bonnet which she had not yet laid aside, and helped herself to another tart.
It was strange how the memory of another meal haunted her. Last December they had all sat round the table, congratulating themselves on their own cleverness, and Uncle Dickie had made that deplorable speech. Well, Uncle Dickie was dead and there was not much matter for congratulation now. The stackyard was gone. The farm buildings were reduced to blackened husks. Only the rain, held off too long by the wind to save the stables, had come in time to check the fire before it reached the cottages beyond. And that red haired young socialist lay dead in the back sitting-room. That was bad luck. He was an irreverent, conceited young fool of course, but then one was like that when one was young, and doubtless he was rather clever, and had a good many hopes about the fine things he was going to do. It was bad luck, being shot down by a crazy harvester, just when life was beginning. Still, the important thing at the moment was to get John to bed without any more fuss. He looked absolutely worn out. She supposed that even this would not make any difference to Mary's determination to stay on at Anderby. Mary was of the obstinate, selfish type, who insist upon doing good in their own way. If she thought that she was doing her duty there at Anderby, at Anderby she would stay, even if John had twenty strokes and died.
Sarah rose from the table.
"Now then, Mary. What about getting to bed? I'm sure we're all tired, and if Violet has put those sheets on the spare bed we'd better use them."
"Well, well, it doesn't sound so bad. I could do with forty winks myself," remarked Toby, with a tremendous yawn.