"This is nice of you!" she said. "Good afternoon, Tom. Come along in, Cousin Sarah. You'll excuse the room being rather upset. I'm mending sheets. Mr. Rossitur—Mrs. Bannister, Mr. Bannister."
"Is John in?" asked Sarah, going briskly to the point.
"No, he's up the fields. He won't be long, though. I'm sorry."
"Oh, I'm sorry too. I particularly wished to see him." Sarah had bowed stiffly to David, and paid him no further attention.
"He ought to be in about five, but he's gone to Littledale to see how the new barley is doing—the sort that Burdass brought over from Siberia."
"Quite."
"But you'll wait and have tea, won't you?"
"That depends how late it is."
Then they were all silent. It was dreadful, Mary thought. Sarah, refusing to remove her cloak or bonnet, sat erect on one of the more uncompromising leather-covered chairs. Tom hovered, ill at ease, in the background. The only tranquil person was David, who stood silently polite, but, Mary guessed, secretly entertained, on the hearth-rug. Once he cast a look of whimsical inquiry at his hostess.
"Did you put your trap up?" asked Mary.