At first she made no reply, but stood looking intently at Abner. It was difficult for him to believe that she was George Malpas’s wife and the mother of the two children whom he had seen playing in the garden: she seemed too young, too slight, little more, indeed, than a young girl. She wore a clean apron of white linen, still creased from the ironing, and her straight chestnut hair was bound back plainly on either side of her temples and braided in heavy plaits behind. She was tall, and her slimness, together with the narrow apron, made her appear taller. Her brow was wide and unwrinkled, her eyes were hazel, her nose straight and slightly marked with golden freckles. One would have said that her face represented the most untroubled calm if it had not been that her mouth was a little sad. Only her lips betrayed the fact that she had suffered. She stood in the shadow and looked at Abner narrowly but did not speak, for she had known enough already of George’s boon companions to be a little careful of them. ‘Don’t stare at the chap like that!’ said George irritably, ‘or he’ll think you’re cracked.’ Then she spoke in a voice that showed more refinement than could have been expected. Her speech was almost free from the pleasant burr of the Marches. ‘I dare say we can manage,’ she said. ‘I’ll see about it.’ Then she addressed Abner directly. ‘What’s your name?’ ‘Damn me if I ever thought to ask him!’ muttered George. Abner told her, and she repeated it after him: ‘Abner Fellows.’ ‘Well, that’s a queer name,’ said Malpas. ‘I don’t mind ever having heard it before.’ ‘It’s out of the Bible, George,’ said his wife. ‘Out of the Bible, is it?’ he laughed. ‘Well, that’s more in your line than mine.’ She left them quietly to attend to the details of Abner’s room. Malpas, still a little restless, took him out again, talking incessantly and showing him what remained of the ancient features of Wolfpits: the line of damp stables with boxes for thirty horses, the yew-trees that had once been clipped to the shape of peacocks but had now straggled into those of monstrous antediluvian birds; the red-walled garden, now a wilderness of nettles, whose fruit trees spilled their pulpy produce on the mossed paths. From the farthest corner of the garden they could see the house which, from this angle appeared tall and narrow like a tower, with chimney-pots for battlements. In an upper window there appeared the figure of a woman standing still and gazing out over the mountain. ‘That’s Mary putting your room to rights,’ said George, but he did not call to her.