the servant (a girl from a distance), to the showy drawing-room, chilly and unused in its atmosphere.  It was the kind of house which impressed the country people by its “improvements,” and at which Anne went to the side door to leave her butter.  But she was so absorbed in her duty to the girl that she gave no thought to this, which at another time she would have considered to be “taking a liberty.”  She alone of the girl’s old friends seemed to have this burden laid upon her, and as she entered the house she was overwhelmed with the blame of its having happened, and the difficulty now of recovering innocence lost.

CHAPTER IX

She had scarcely had time to recover breath before Burton, the horse-breeder, came into the room—­a big-bearded man, of heavy build, with a familiar loudness and fussiness which would have been better in the open air, than even in the new vulgarity of his drawing-room.  His weight was the first thing one thought of.  It would have taken a powerful horse to carry him.  He always wore his hat, whether indoors or out, and bright tan leggings, with riding-breeches.  Among his men and the neighbours he passed as a good master, and free with his money, standing for local purposes (as, indeed, he himself considered), in place of the lord of the manor who owned a more interesting house in another shire of the country.  Like the rest of mankind he earned a reputation for generosity by being liberal with those things by which he set little store.  He was neither avaricious nor surly, and, being in full health and vigour himself, was able to spare a rough chivalry to women which made allowance for their weaker bodies and greater difficulty in coping with existence.  It was probably this soft-heartedness which, in the first place, had stirred a vague pity for the pretty blonde dressmaker, and this quality which the pliable girl had interpreted into the hope that he’d do her justice.  He had, indeed, often stood up for Anne Hilton herself when her peculiarities had been discussed, and it was with the warm feeling of being rather a friend of hers, and not being the man to hear a single woman abused, that he came into the room and shook hands noisily.

“Well, Miss Hilton!  I am very pleased to see you.  You’ve come a long way in the wet.  You must have a glass of something hot.  Jane!  Jane!” he shouted, stamping to the door and looking up the staircase.  There was a sudden clatter, and Jane appeared in the doorway laughing, because she had run downstairs so quickly that she had almost fallen.

“That’s smart work,” said Burton.

“These stairs is so steep it’s the easiest way of coming down ’em,” said Jane with an air of proprietorship, with the familiarity and importance also of one who knows she is welcome, and, whatever other people may think, has a power which no one else present has with the only man in the room.

“Well, you have chosen a wet day to pay us a visit, Miss Hilton,” she said, with a hospitality too effusive to be spontaneous.