Zita had been accustomed to face men of every description. Her father had stood between her and coarse insult, but she had been obliged to confront men rude, boisterous, and disposed to take advantage of her weakness, and had acquired readiness in dealing with them, and nerve not to show timidity. When she had seen the cringe and cower of those whom Drownlands had threatened, she tossed her chestnut gold head in a manner expressive of impatience. Drownlands had noticed this, and Zita had seen in his darkening brow that he had observed, was surprised and offended at the contemptuous action. The moment was not far off when he would test his strength against hers. 'The sooner the better,' said Zita to herself; and, instead of avoiding him, she went across the yard to meet him as he rode up the drove. She took his horse by the bridle and said, 'I will lead him to the stable; the men are at chapel or the beerhouse, and the boy is with the cows.' 'You won't curry favour by doing this,' said Drownlands. 'Curry favour? I curry nothing. Currycomb your horse yourself!' 'I want a word with you, Cheap Jack.' 'And I with you, Fen-tiger—we must settle terms.' 'Terms? What terms?' 'The price of my lodging.' 'I do not understand you.' 'I have a capital copper warming-pan,' said Zita, 'with George and the Dragon on the lid. A stunner. I've reckoned up what meat I've ate, and all I've drunk, and the wear and tear of knives, linen, dishes, and so forth, and I think the copper warming-pan will cover it all.' Drownlands had flung himself from his horse. He stared at Zita; he did not in the least seize her meaning. 'If you don't care for a warming-pan,' she said, 'then there's half a dozen red plush weskits, with gilded buttons and dogs' heads on 'em—you can't wear all six, but take your choice and I'll make up with scrubbing-brushes, starch, and blue. I think the tiger-skin and a red weskit under it, and them bushy eyebrows tied in a knot as they be now, will make such a figure of you as will drive babies and girls into fits.' 'You are mocking me! You dare to do that?' 'I'm not mocking you, though I don't say I'm not inclined to whisk a red weskit before you, when you stamp and blare like a bull—for fun, you know. I love fun, but I am not mocking you. I am too much obliged to you for receiving me to do that.' 'I will turn you out—you and your van—into the winter frost.' 'When? To-morrow? I am ready to go.' 'You shall not go!' exclaimed Drownlands, coming round the head of the horse to her and seizing her wrist. 'You shall not go; I know why you want to leave me. I know whither you want to go.' 'Whither?' 'To Crumbland.'