"I don't see that she's had the chance to work much," said Vine, "she hasn't seen the young chap more than three or four times." "Bates's looker saw them at Romney once," said Southland, "having their dinner together; but that time at the Farmers' Club he'd barely speak to her." "Well she's got herself talked about over two men that she hasn't took, and now she's took a man that she hasn't got herself talked about over." "Anyways, I'm glad of it," said Furnese, "she's a mare that's never been praeaperly broken in, and now at last she's got a man to do it." "Poor feller, Alce. I wonder how he'll take it." Alce took it very well. For a week he did not come to Ansdore, then he appeared with Joanna's first wedding present in the shape of a silver tea-service which had belonged to his mother. "Maybe it's a bit early yet for wedding presents. They say you won't be married till next fall. But I've always wanted you to have this tea-set of mother's--it's real silver, as you can see by the lion on it--a teapot and milk jug and sugar bowl; many's the time I've seen you in my mind's eye, setting like a queen and pouring my tea out of it. Since it can't be my tea, it may as well be another's." "There'll always be a cup for you, Arthur," said Joanna graciously. "Thanks," said Arthur in a stricken voice. Joanna could not feel as sorry for Alce as she ought and would have liked. All her emotions, whether of joy or sorrow, seemed to be poured into the wonderful new life that Martin had given her. A new life had begun for her on Christmas Day--in fact, it would be true to say that a new Joanna had begun. Something in her was broken, melted, changed out of all recognition--she was softer, weaker, more excited, more tender. She had lost much of her old swagger, her old cocksureness, for Martin had utterly surprised and tamed her. She had come to him in a scheming spirit of politics, and he had kept her in a spirit of devotion. She had come to him as Ansdore to North Farthing--but he had stripped her of Ansdore, and she was just Joanna Godden who had waited twenty-eight years for love. Yet, perhaps because she had waited so long, she was now a little afraid. She had hitherto met love only in the dim forms of Arthur Alce and Dick Socknersh, with still more hazy images in the courtships of Abbot and Cobb. Now Martin was showing her love as no dim flicker or candlelight or domestic lamplight but as a bright, eager fire. She loved his kisses, the clasp of his strong arms, the stability of his chest and shoulders--but sometimes his passion startled her, and she had queer, shy withdrawals. Yet these were never more than temporary and superficial; her own passions were slowly awaking, and moreover had their roots in a sweet, sane instinct of vocation and common sense.