She sat in a lassitude that was really suspense and irritation. Maurice, at least, might come in—there was nothing to keep him out. She rose to her feet. Catching sight of her reflection in a mirror, she glanced at herself with a slight smile of recognition, as if she were an old friend to herself. Her face was oval and calm, her nose a little arched. Her neck made a beautiful line down to her shoulder. With hair knotted loosely behind, she had something of a warm, maternal look. Thinking this of herself, she arched her eyebrows and her rather heavy eyelids, with a little flicker of a smile, and for a moment her grey eyes looked amused and wicked, a little sardonic, out of her transfigured Madonna face. Then, resuming her air of womanly patience—she was really fatally self-determined—she went with a little jerk towards the door. Her eyes were slightly reddened. She passed down the wide hall, and through a door at the end. Then she was in the farm premises. The scent of dairy, and of farm-kitchen, and of farm-yard and of leather almost overcame her: but particularly the scent of dairy. They had been scalding out the pans. The flagged passage in front of her was dark, puddled and wet. Light came out from the open kitchen door. She went forward and stood in the doorway. The farm-people were at tea, seated at a little distance from her, round a long, narrow table, in the centre of which stood a white lamp. Ruddy faces, ruddy hands holding food, red mouths working, heads bent over the tea-cups: men, land-girls, boys: it was tea-time, feeding-time. Some faces caught sight of her. Mrs. Wernham, going round behind the chairs with a large black teapot, halting slightly in her walk, was not aware of her for a moment. Then she turned suddenly. “Oh, is it Madam!” she exclaimed. “Come in, then, come in! We’re at tea.” And she dragged forward a chair. “No, I won’t come in,” said Isabel, “I’m afraid I interrupt your meal.” “No—no—not likely, Madam, not likely.” “Hasn’t Mr. Pervin come in, do you know?” “I’m sure I couldn’t say! Missed him, have you, Madam?” “No, I only wanted him to come in,” laughed Isabel, as if shyly. “Wanted him, did ye? Get you, boy—get up, now—” Mrs. Wernham knocked one of the boys on the shoulder. He began to scrape to his feet, chewing largely. “I believe he’s in top stable,” said another face from the table. “Ah! No, don’t get up. I’m going myself,” said Isabel. “Don’t you go out of a dirty night like this. Let the lad go. Get along wi’ ye, boy,” said Mrs. Wernham. “No, no,” said Isabel, with a decision that was always obeyed. “Go on with your tea, Tom. I’d like to go across to the stable, Mrs. Wernham.” “Did ever you hear tell!” exclaimed the woman. “Isn’t the trap late?” asked Isabel. “Why, no,” said Mrs. Wernham, peering into the distance at the tall, dim clock. “No, Madam—we can give it another quarter or twenty minutes yet, good—yes, every bit of a quarter.”