"Where's Foster?" he asked.
"He's away in Scotland buying stock. He's crazy about crossing something or other with Highland Cattle. I don't know." Ursula seemed preoccupied. Her brow was ruffled with thought. "John, does Mary always rule things in the village in this high-handed way?"
"What? I dun' know. That's her business. I never interfere."
"But don't you see she's wearing herself out? Making an old woman of herself while she ought to be still a girl? Besides, after all, you're the farmer, aren't you? Of course," with a sigh, "I know she's magnificent."
"Oh—ay."
"But it must make it a little uncomfortable for every one if she will set the village by the ears."
John sat silent for a minute. Ursula lay and watched him, her sharp brown eyes quietly searching his ruminative face. There was something about John that reminded her of an ox—large, docile, fated. "Well, it's nowt to do with me," he said at last. "I'd better go and clear away some of this mess. So long."
He left her.
Well, it was evident that nothing could be done with John. She would have to concentrate on Mary. The determination to reform her cousin-in-law's existence pursued her throughout the evening. It would be an entertaining game, the sole relief of a rather monotonous visit to otherwise boring people.
Next morning she was awakened by Mary, standing over her bed with the breakfast tray. One irritating thing about Mary was that she always seemed to be carrying trays somewhere.