“If anybody’s going to horsewhip Sam,” said a voice, “it’s me. I’m in charge of this job, not you, my lad.” They had not seen Anne come in. They saw her now, a little old woman of the working class in her best clothes, with a bugled cape and cotton gloves, elastic-sided boots and a quaint bonnet tied with ribbon beneath her chin, and, unaccountably, she filled the room. They would have passed her in the street without a second glance as one of the throng, at face value insignificant; but this was not Anne in the street. It was Anne in arms for Sam, and when Effie and Stewart compared notes afterwards they each confessed to having had the same thought: that their eyes were traitors and that what they saw was fantasy and what they felt was real. “I’m Sam’s mother,” she introduced herself, “and it’s like enough I were overfond of him when he was a lad and didn’t thrash enough, but I’m not too old to start again. You’ll be Effie? Aye, I’ve come round here to put things in their places. They’ve got a bit askew amongst the lot of you, and what I heard when I came in won’t help.” She looked accusingly at Dubby. “You’ll be her brother, I reckon?” It seemed to him the best way out. Anne had come to “put things in their places,” and she reckoned he was Effie’s brother, which, now he thought of it, was exactly his place. Brotherhood was thrust upon him, but he thought he had achieved it. Plainly, for all Effie’s enigmas, there was nothing else for him, and he let Anne put him in his place. “Yes,” he said, without a glance at Effie, “her brother.” “You’re a clean-limbed family,” she complimented them, and Dubby stole a look at Effie, half humorous and half defying her to contradict his brotherhood. “Well, I came to see Effie, but I’ll none gainsay that her brother has a right to stay and listen, if he’ll listen quiet.” “Yes,” said Dubby, still challenging Effie, “her brother has a right.” And Effie did not deny him. She had her courage, but the unexpectedness of Anne and the force of her, as if for all these years she had been winding up her will, which now came into play like a spring immensely braced in super-tightened coils, caused her to want an ally and she agreed that Dubby had a right if not the one conferred on him by Anne. “Won’t you sit, Mrs. Branstone?” she said. “I was wondering when I should hear your voice,” said Anne. “You’re not a talker, lass.” “No,” said Effie. “More of a doer.” Effie was wondering whether that was praise or condemnation, when Anne added: “I like you the better for that, though it’s a good voice. I haven’t heard it much, but I’ve heard it. I haven’t seen you much, but I’ve seen enough. I’m on your side, Effie.” She astonished them both by rising as if to go. “But,” said Dubby, “is that all?”