“I’m sure I couldn’t tell you,” replied Tilly, on her dignity. “An’ is that all as you’ve gathered, as she’s housekeeping at the vicarage?” “I’ve ’eered mention of ’er name, but I couldn’t remember it for my life.” “Why, yer riddle-skulled woman o’ nonsense, what have you got a head for?” “For what other folks ’as got theirs for,” retorted Tilly, who loved nothing more than these tilts when he would call her names. There was a lull. “I don’t believe as anybody could keep it in their head,” the woman-servant continued, tentatively. “What?” he asked. “Why, ’er name.” “How’s that?” “She’s fra some foreign parts or other.” “Who told you that?” “That’s all I do know, as she is.” “An’ wheer do you reckon she’s from, then?” “I don’t know. They do say as she hails fra th’ Pole. I don’t know,” Tilly hastened to add, knowing he would attack her. “Fra th’ Pole, why do _you_ hail fra th’ Pole? Who set up that menagerie confabulation?” “That’s what they say—I don’t know——” “Who says?” “Mrs. Bentley says as she’s fra th’ Pole—else she is a Pole, or summat.” Tilly was only afraid she was landing herself deeper now. “Who says she’s a Pole?” “They all say so.” “Then what’s brought her to these parts?” “I couldn’t tell you. She’s got a little girl with her.” “Got a little girl with her?” “Of three or four, with a head like a fuzz-ball.” “Black?” “White—fair as can be, an’ all of a fuzz.” “Is there a father, then?” “Not to my knowledge. I don’t know.” “What brought her here?” “I couldn’t say, without th’ vicar axed her.” “Is the child her child?” “I s’d think so—they say so.” “Who told you about her?” “Why, Lizzie—a-Monday—we seed her goin’ past.” “You’d have to be rattling your tongues if anything went past.” Brangwen stood musing. That evening he went up to Cossethay to the “Red Lion”, half with the intention of hearing more. She was the widow of a Polish doctor, he gathered. Her husband had died, a refugee, in London. She spoke a bit foreign-like, but you could easily make out what she said. She had one little girl named Anna. Lensky was the woman’s name, Mrs. Lensky. Brangwen felt that here was the unreality established at last. He felt also a curious certainty about her, as if she were destined to him. It was to him a profound satisfaction that she was a foreigner. A swift change had taken place on the earth for him, as if a new creation were fulfilled, in which he had real existence. Things had all been stark, unreal, barren, mere nullities before. Now they were actualities that he could handle. He dared scarcely think of the woman. He was afraid. Only all the time he was aware of her presence not far off, he lived in her. But he dared not know her, even acquaint himself with her by thinking of her.