‘Why didn’t you tie it down, child?’ said a voice behind her. ‘I meant to, but the flies are so bad I let her off--and this is what she’s done!’ Una looked round, expecting Puck, and saw a curly-haired girl, not much taller than herself, but older, dressed in a curious high-waisted, lavender-coloured riding-habit, with a high hunched collar and a deep cape and a belt fastened with a steel clasp. She wore a yellow velvet cap and tan gauntlets, and carried a real hunting-crop. Her cheeks were pale except for two pretty pink patches in the middle, and she talked with little gasps at the end of her sentences, as though she had been running. ‘You don’t milk so badly, child,’ she said, and when she smiled her teeth showed small and even and pearly. ‘Can you milk?’ Una asked, and then flushed, for she heard Puck’s chuckle. He stepped out of the fern and sat down, holding Kitty Short-horn’s tail. ‘There isn’t much,’ he said, ‘that Miss Philadelphia doesn’t know about milk--or, for that matter, butter and eggs. She’s a great housewife.’ ‘Oh,’ said Una. ‘I’m sorry I can’t shake hands. Mine are all milky; but Mrs Vincey is going to teach me butter-making this summer.’ ‘Ah! I’m going to London this summer,’ the girl said, ‘to my aunt in Bloomsbury.’ She coughed as she began to hum, ‘“Oh, what a town! What a wonderful metropolis!” ‘You’ve got a cold,’ said Una. ‘No. Only my stupid cough. But it’s vastly better than it was last winter. It will disappear in London air. Every one says so. D’you like doctors, child?’ ‘I don’t know any,’ Una replied. ‘But I’m sure I shouldn’t.’ ‘Think yourself lucky, child. I beg your pardon,’ the girl laughed, for Una frowned. ‘I’m not a child, and my name’s Una,’ she said. ‘Mine’s Philadelphia. But everybody except Rene calls me Phil. I’m Squire Bucksteed’s daughter--over at Marklake yonder.’ She jerked her little round chin towards the south behind Dallington. ‘Sure-ly you know Marklake?’ ‘We went a picnic to Marklake Green once,’ said Una. ‘It’s awfully pretty. I like all those funny little roads that don’t lead anywhere.’ ‘They lead over our land,’ said Philadelphia stiffly, ‘and the coach road is only four miles away. One can go anywhere from the Green. I went to the Assize Ball at Lewes last year.’ She spun round and took a few dancing steps, but stopped with her hand to her side. ‘It gives me a stitch,’ she explained. ‘No odds. ‘Twill go away in London air. That’s the latest French step, child. Rene taught it me. D’you hate the French, chi--Una?’ ‘Well, I hate French, of course, but I don’t mind Ma’m’selle. She’s rather decent. Is Rene your French governess?’ Philadelphia laughed till she caught her breath again.