So instead of writing her letter, she went and washed the tears off her face over the sink and sat down to a cup of tea and a piece of bread and dripping with Mrs. Tolhurst and Milly Pump. When Ellen was at home Joanna was lofty and exclusive, and had her meals in the dining-room--she did not think it right that her little sister, with all her new accomplishments and elegancies, should lead the common, kitchen life--also, of course, when Martin came they sat down in state, with pink wine-glasses beside their tumblers. But when she was alone she much preferred a friendly meal with Milly and Mrs. Tolhurst--she even joined them in pouring her tea into her saucer, and sat with it cooling on her spread fingers, her elbow on the cloth. She unbent from mistress to fellow-worker, and they talked the scandal of a dozen farms. "It's as I said, at Yokes Court," said Mrs. Tolhurst--"there's no good young Mus' Southland saying as the girl's mother sent for her--_I_ know better." "I saw Mrs. Lambarde after church on Sunday," said Joanna, "and she wasn't expecting Elsie then." "Elsie went before her box did," said Milly Pump, "Bill Piper fetched it along after her, as he told me himself." "I'm sure it's Tom Southland," said Joanna. "Surelye," said Mrs. Tolhurst, "and all the more as he's been saying at the Woolpack that the Old Squire's been hanging around after the girl--which reminds me, Miss Joanna, as I hear Mus' Martin's back this afternoon." "This afternoon! He said to-morrow morning." "Well, he's come this afternoon. Broadhurst met him driving from Rye station." "Then he's sure to be over to-night. You get the wine-glasses out, Mrs. Tolhurst, and spread in the dining-room." She rose up from table, once more apart from her servants. Her brain was humming with surprised joy--Martin was back, she would soon see him, he would be sure to come to her. And then she would tell him of her surrender, and the cloud would be gone from their love. With beating heart she ran upstairs to change her dress and tidy herself, for he might come at any moment. There was a red-brown velvet dress he particularly liked--she pulled it out of her drawer and smoothed its folds. Her drawers were crammed and heavy with the garments she was to wear as Martin's wife; there were silk blouses bought at smart shops in Folkestone and Marlingate; there was a pair of buckled shoes--size eight; there were piles of neat longcloth and calico underclothing, demure nightdresses buttoning to the chin, stiff petticoats, and what she called "petticoat bodies," fastening down the front with linen buttons, and with tiny, shy frills of embroidery at the neck and armholes. She put on the brown dress, and piled up her hair against the big comb. She looked at herself in the glass by the light of the candles she had put to light up the rainy evening. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright, and her hair and her dress were the same soft, burning colour.... When would Martin come?