"Oh, quite suitable, I think. Very interesting to a farmer, I dare say. Let me wrap it up for you. Seven and sixpence. And the next thing?"
She went home with the flamboyant cover discreetly veiled in brown paper. She quite intended to amuse herself with it that night before she handed it over to John. But when she reached Anderby Violet had toothache and the groceries weren't unpacked, and books were all very well, but one had other things to see about.
On Sunday she forgot all about it. On Monday and Tuesday she was busy washing and ironing. On Wednesday she drove with John to Market Burton. On Thursday she always churned.
That was a busy day. She turned and turned before the butter came, and, even when the churning was done, there were golden slabs to be wrapped in grease-proof paper ready for the carrier to convey them into Hardrascliffe. Mary felt tired as she washed her hands. Nothing exciting ever happened. There had not even been a satisfactory lot of butter.
Outside the starlings were chattering in the naked trees. The mild evening air—it was warm for February—might blow away that jaded feeling. She mentally reviewed her list of pensioners and invalids.
Mrs. Watts! The name flashed across her mind. She had not visited her for several weeks.
Mrs. Watts, being completely crippled by rheumatism, lived in a high-backed chair in the kitchen of her small cottage, attended by Louie, her half-witted niece. But from her chair the old lady could acquire in one day more intimate and extensive knowledge of village gossip than Mary could collect in a week.
So to Mrs. Watts she went.
Mrs. Watts received her boisterously. For a cripple she possessed remarkable vocal and mental energy.
"Come in, Mrs. Robson," she shouted. "Come in! Now wherever have you been all t' time? I haven't set eyes on you since back end o' Christmas. Has Mrs. Foster gone yet? When's baby coming, eh?"