“How discursive I am! Never mind. You will hear it all, from the proper point of view, at the Mount. I can see them sitting in judgment! Annie Jayne, quoting her mother; that horrid Maria Furlonger, an animated sneer; dear Mrs. Turle, trying to pull both ways, enjoying the scandal and yet not wishing to take sides against me, in case Tim should turn out all right and be a vehicle for eligible bachelors. She has a fury for marrying Nancy. “A married man should come back with his halter round his neck. Tim should have had the station fly full of boxes. He just walked in without a word--without a clean collar or a nightshirt. I thought that he was in Venezuela. When Tryphena saw us both come down next morning she dropped the butter-dish--hand-painted willow--the little fool! Then she sneaked off and told her mother. Mrs. Hone, very fat, very shiny with outraged virtue, came back to say that she couldn’t allow _her_ girl to stay in such a place. _Her_ children had always been brought up respectable. No one could say that one of _her_ daughters had been compelled to marry in a hurry.” “And you are going away? You won’t be here for my wedding--a week next Thursday.” “I’m afraid not. But you must come and see us in town. I’ve told Tim all about you. He adores big, dun-haired girls. He likes women as he likes wine--with body. “I want you to go to Mrs. Hone’s,” she continued, “that is why I ran after the cart. Say I’ll give her five shillings for that figure with the skull in its hand. Tim thinks an exhibition of Staffordshire would be a good idea.” “Bert Hone’s?” “Yes. He is dead. Queer old savage! Good-by. I’m going to talk to the landlord of the Buttery.” She turned off at the cross-roads. Pamela drove to Mrs. Hone’s, haggled for the figure, wrapped it in newspaper, and put it in the cart. As she did so she mentioned carelessly that Mrs. Clutton was going away. “Be she now?” the doubled-up old woman cried. “Sure! London now. You don’t say so, my dear soul. I shall miss her. When my man died she came in to look at him. He worked up to the very last, although he was so old--past eighty. He took his turn with the hayin’. He never wasted a hour; it was Sunday when he died, so it was. She come and looked at him a-layin’ in his coffin, and she shed a tear. The other ladies gi’ me black clothes. Young Mis’ Jayne up at the Mount brought the little baby for me to see, and Mis’ Turle sent Miss Nancy down with a bottle o’ doctor’s stuff--it’s nothin’ but camphor; jest smell it. But Mis’ Clutton brought a fine wreath like wax. He went down into his grave as if he was a gentleman farmer. Nobody else thought o’ flowers; wreaths aint for the likes o’ we.” As Pamela turned the pony’s head she decided not to go to the Mount that day. There were still moments when Annie’s impenetrability and Aunt Sophy’s phlegm jarred.