Beyond Egypt Farm and the cottages of Worge, just before the willow pond that marked the end of the street, stood the shop, where Thyrza Honey was “licensed to sell tobacco.” It was in darkness now, except for a faint creep of light under the door. Had Thyrza “shut up”? No—the handle turned, the little bell gave its buzzing ring, and the warm light ran out for a moment into the darkling lane—with a smell of tea and tobacco, sweets and sawdust, scrubbed floor and rotting beams, the smell that was to Tom the same refuge as the smell of the forge was to Mr. Sumption. The shop was empty, but he could see a shadow moving to and fro across the little window at the back—a ridiculous little window, about a foot square, yet as gay with its lace curtains and pink ribbons as the drawing-room bow of a Brighton lodging-house. The next minute a face was pressed against it, then withdrawn, and the door at the back of the shop opened. “Good evenun, Mus’ Tom.” “Good evenun, Mrs. Honey.” She moved slowly to her place behind the counter. All her movements were slow, which women sometimes found irritating, but never men, who were always either consciously or unconsciously aware of a kind of drawling beauty in her gait. She was fair, with hair like fluffy, sun-bleached grass. Her skin was like that of an apricot, soft and thick, of a deep creamy yellow, with soft dabs of colour on her wide cheek-bones. “A packet of woodbines, please,” said Tom. She reached them from the shelf behind her. “Have you got any bull’s-eyes?” “Yes—three-ha’pence an ounce.” “They’ve got dearer.” “And they’ll get dearer still, I reckon.” “Give me three penn’orth, please.” She took them out of a glass bottle at her elbow. “Got any monster telephones?” “I dunno—I’m afeard we’re sold out.” Thyrza always spoke of herself in a business capacity as “we.” “Could you maake up two penn’orth? Harry and Zacky are unaccountable fond of them.” “You’re a kind brother—buying sweeties for all the family. I reckon the bull’s-eyes are fur your sisters.” “Reckon they are. No use giving monster telephones to girls—they can’t be eaten dentical.” This was obvious when Thyrza finally unearthed the telephones in an old case under the ginger-beer box. They were long, black coiling strings of liquorice, requiring sleight of hand, combined with a certain amount of unfastidiousness, for their consumption. Tom was disappointed that Thyrza had found them so soon. He stood by the counter, fingering his purchases and wishing his money was not all gone. “I hear you’ve bin up at the Tribunal,” said Thyrza, coming to the rescue. “Yes—they woan’t let me off.” “You’re sorry, I reckon.” “Unaccountable. I doan’t know wot ull become of the farm.” Thyrza sighed sympathetically, having nothing to say in the way of comfort.