The distracted yeoman obeyed, and presently a stream of people issued from the porch on the opposite side of the road, breaking up for the most part into little knots of twos and threes, though a few figures made their way homewards unescorted. While anxiously on the look out for the mysterious damsel of the Roebuck, Trooper Willcocks witnessed one or two little episodes which filled him with rage and mortification. Pretty Chrissy Baverstock, for instance, after loitering on the steps for quite five minutes, craning a slender neck and tossing her fair curls, was accosted by a bluff-looking labouring fellow, Jim Hardy in fact, who, after a few minutes’ parley, drew her arm through his, and walked away with her. Rosy-cheeked Mary Miles went through the same preliminary period of waiting and head-tossing, but departed alone, her handkerchief to her eyes. The over-soft heart of Trooper Willcocks was wrung within him at the sight. But now Samuel Cross recalled his wandering attention by an admonitory dig: “That’s her,” he murmured. Willcocks peered cautiously out and presently drew his head inwards with a jerk, his face as white as ashes. “That one,” he gasped. “That old, skinny, squinting—good Lord, surely I never said anything in the way o’ sweetheartin’ to her.” “You only axed her to marry you—before witnesses,” returned the implacable Samuel. “There’s no way out of it, man. She’ll have the law on you without you lead her to the altar.” “I was awful far gone on Toosday night I remember,” groaned the luckless yeoman, wiping a clammy brow. “But a man shouldn’t be held accountable for what he says when he’s that way.” “Lor’ bless you,” returned Cross cheerfully, “the law don’t take no account of such excuses. You weren’t incapable, you see; you was able to walk about, an’ put your arm round her waist an’ that.” “Ugh! I must ha’ been far gone.” “I don’t know about that. Says you, ‘My beauty,’ says you, ‘my little charmer, you an’ me must be a pair,’ says you; ‘I’ve come to the country to look for my match,’ says you.’” “I couldn’t have said that,” interrupted Willcocks. “’Tisn’t true to begin with. I am going out to the front in a few weeks.” “Ah,” commented Sam, “you told her that, an’ you asked her to go back with you.” “But hang it, man, the thing’s impossible—ridiculous.” “Ridiculous! I should just think it was. You’ll be the laughin’-stock of the countryside! What will Chrissy Baverstock say—an’ Mary an’ Rosie, an’ the rest of them, and all their fellows when it comes out in court? And it certainly will, without you marry her.” “Good Lord,” cried poor Willcocks, now quite unnerved, “is there no way out of it? Look here, I know you’re a good chap—I—I’d make it worth your while. I’ve got a few pounds. Couldn’t you just—just hush it up?” Sam pursed up his mouth into whistling form.