Arethusina came downstairs dressed in her eldest sister’s bombazine dress, borrowed for the occasion. She was not embarrassed; she, like John, was eager for change, weary of the threadbare existence and unending struggle at home, of watching her sisters grow warped and bitter. She saw ahead, saw four gray old women, dried kernels rattling in the echoing shell of Tregellas House, never speaking, hating each other and all things, doddering on to the blank end, four gray nuns cloistered by granite pride. Anything were better than that. She would sob off to sleep swearing to take any chance rather than come to that, and here was a chance. John Penhale stood for life full and flowing in place of want and decay. He might only be a yeoman, but he would have two big farms and could keep her in comfort. She would have children, she hoped, silk dresses and a little lap dog. Some day she might even visit London. She entered the kitchen in good heart and saw John standing before the fire, a vague but imposing silhouette. A fine figure of a man, she thought, and her heart lifted still higher. She dropped him a mischievous curtsey. He took her hand, laughing, a deep, pleasant laugh. They sat on the settle at the back of the kitchen and got on famously. John had barely spoken to any sort of woman for a year, leave alone a pretty woman; he thought her wonderful. Arethusina had not seen a presentable man for double that period; all her stored coquetry bubbled out. John was only twenty-four, the girl but nineteen; they were like two starved children sitting down to a square meal. The brass-studded grandfather clock tick-tocked, in its corner; the yellow house cat lay crouched on the hearth watching the furze kindling for mice; Selina nodded in her rocker before the fire, subconsciously keeping time with the beats of the clock. A whinny of treble laughter came from the settle, followed by John’s rumbling bass, then whisperings. Selina beamed at her vis-à-vis, the yellow cat. She was elated at the success of her plans. It had been a good idea to let the girl get to know John before she could see him. The blow would be softened when morning came. In Selina’s experience obstacles that appeared insurmountable at night dwindled to nothing in the morning light; one came at them with a fresh heart. She was pleased with Arethusina. The girl was healthy, practical and ambitious—above all, ambitious. She might not be able to do much with John, marred as he was, but their children would get all the advantages of the mother’s birth, Selina was sure. The chariot of the Penhales would roll onwards, steered by small, strong hands.