"He would scorn to do it, Val. However, you are quite right when you say they would produce more money, for such is life. People don't want----" Philip Weekes rose. "There's somebody knocking at the door," he said. "Susan, I expect," answered his wife. "My stars, the airs and graces of these giglet girls nowadays! What d'you think? She's started an evening out! And Mr. Woodrow--more shame to him--never raised any objection; and now, of a Thursday, she puts on her little silly frills and feathers, and goes off on her own account, Lord knows where, like a grown-up person! But I told him, as her aunt, that she had to be in by half after nine. And that she does do--else I'll have her back here again." It was not Susan, but John Prout, who now entered. "Just dropped in for a tell and a pipe afore I go homeward," he explained. "Been seeing master, and it have cast me down." "He's a deal better, in my opinion," said Philip. "Livelier like, and I should say he'd put on flesh. Anyway he's going to leave Lydford come spring, for Jarratt means to be in his house afore Lady Day." Mr. Prout nodded and filled his pipe. At the same moment Jarratt Weekes himself entered. "Hullo!" he said. "Have 'e got a party?" "'Tis your mother's ripe wisdom, Jar, as draws us men," answered Mr. Huggins. "An' her ripe sloe gin, I reckon. Has anybody seed Mrs. Brendon? My wife tells me that she's in Lydford to-night." "I seed her at tea-time," answered Philip. "She was going up to visit Billy Long's wife--her that broke her leg in the gorge last August." "Then I'll go that way myself," declared the younger Weekes. "I want a word with her." "Tell her to call here, then, please; 'tis a rough night. Us'll go home-along together," said John Prout. "She don't want you," answered Hephzibah. "I know that; but I want her. She's as strong as a man, and I ban't now, worse luck. Sarah Jane will give me an arm up over White Hill, where the wind will be blowing a hurricane to-night. I had to go down in a hurry to Little Lydford on foot, and I'm cruel weary." Mrs. Weekes poured out a large wine-glass of cordial for him. "How's Mr. Woodrow?" she asked. "Just been there. There's things troubling him. Even to me he was a thought short--distracted like. Wouldn't talk business, and sent me off almost afore I'd sat down. There's something on his mind without a doubt." "His health?" "Not that. I judge he's better if anything. But he's terrible lonely." "Vicar's son often goes in to have a talk, I believe," said Philip. "Vicar would stop it if he knowed, however. Mr. Woodrow's opinions are very queer, so 'tis rumoured," declared Mr. Huggins. Prout sighed, drank his sloe gin, with many thanks to the giver. Then he rose painfully. "I won't stop, for if I get stiff 'twill be a grief to my bones going home. If you don't mind, Jarratt, I'll go along with you."