He led them on and on, through a maze of back kitchens, dairies, larders, and sculleries, that melted along covered ways into a farm-house, visibly older than the main building, which again rambled out among barns, byres, pig-pens, stalls and stables to the dead fields behind. “Somehow,” said Sophie, sitting exhausted on an ancient well-curb--“somehow one wouldn't insult these lovely old things by filling them with hay.” George looked at long stone walls upholding reaches of silvery-oak weather-boarding; buttresses of mixed flint and bricks; outside stairs, stone upon arched stone; curves of thatch where grass sprouted; roundels of house-leeked tiles, and a huge paved yard populated by two cows and the repentant Rambler. He had not thought of himself or of the telegraph office for two and a half hours. “But why,” said Sophie, as they went back through the crater of stricken fields,--“why is one expected to know everything in England? Why do they never tell?” “You mean about the Elphicks and the Moones?” he answered. “Yes--and the lawyers and the estate. Who are they? I wonder whether those painted floors in the green room were real oak. Don't you like us exploring things together--better than Pompeii?” George turned once more to look at the view. “Eight hundred acres go with the house--the old man told me. Five farms altogether. Rocketts is one of 'em.” “I like Mrs. Cloke. But what is the old house called?” George laughed. “That's one of the things you're expected to know. He never told me.” The Clokes were more communicative. That evening and thereafter for a week they gave the Chapins the official history, as one gives it to lodgers, of Friars Pardon the house and its five farms. But Sophie asked so many questions, and George was so humanly interested, that, as confidence in the strangers grew, they launched, with observed and acquired detail, into the lives and deaths and doings of the Elphicks and the Moones and their collaterals, the Haylings and the Torrells. It was a tale told serially by Cloke in the barn, or his wife in the dairy, the last chapters reserved for the kitchen o' nights by the big fire, when the two had been half the day exploring about the house, where old Iggulden, of the blue smock, cackled and chuckled to see them. The motives that swayed the characters were beyond their comprehension; the fates that shifted them were gods they had never met; the sidelights Mrs. Cloke threw on act and incident were more amazing than anything in the record. Therefore the Chapins listened delightedly, and blessed Mrs. Shonts. “But why--why--why--did So-and-so do so-and-so?” Sophie would demand from her seat by the pothook; and Mrs. Cloke would answer, smoothing her knees, “For the sake of the place.” “I give it up,” said George one night in their own room. “People don't seem to matter in this country compared to the places they live in. The way she tells it, Friars Pardon was a sort of Moloch.”