“Oh, come in, miss,” said Mrs. Hurd, with some embarrassment, as though it occurred to her that her visitor might legitimately wonder to find a person of her penury entertaining company.  Then, lowering her voice, she hurriedly explained:  “There’s Mrs. Brunt come in this afternoon to help me wi’ the washin’ while I finished my score of plait for the woman who takes ’em into town to-morrow.  And there’s old Patton an’ his wife—­you know ’em, miss?—­them as lives in the parish houses top o’ the common.  He’s walked out a few steps to-day.  It’s not often he’s able, and when I see him through the door I said to ’em, ’if you’ll come in an’ take a cheer, I dessay them tea-leaves ‘ull stan’ another wettin’.  I haven’t got nothink else.’  And there’s Mrs. Jellison, she came in along o’ the Pattons.  You can’t say her no, she’s a queer one.  Do you know her, miss?”

“Oh, bless yer, yes, yes.  She knows me!” said a high, jocular voice, making Mrs. Hurd start; “she couldn’t be long hereabouts without makkin’ eeaste to know me.  You coom in, miss.  We’re not afraid o’ you—­Lor’ bless you!”

Mrs. Hurd stood aside for her visitor to pass in, looking round her the while, in some perplexity, to see whether there was a spare chair and room to place it.  She was a delicate, willowy woman, still young in figure, with a fresh colour, belied by the grey circles under the eyes and the pinched sharpness of the features.  The upper lip, which was pretty and childish, was raised a little over the teeth; the whole expression of the slightly open mouth was unusually soft and sensitive.  On the whole, Minta Hurd was liked in the village, though she was thought a trifle “fine.”  The whole family, indeed, “kept theirsels to theirsels,” and to find Mrs. Hurd with company was unusual.  Her name, of course, was short for Araminta.

Marcella laughed as she caught Mrs. Jellison’s remarks, and made her way in, delighted.  For the present, these village people affected her like figures in poetry or drama.  She saw them with the eye of the imagination through a medium provided by Socialist discussion, or by certain phases of modern art; and the little scene of Mrs. Hurd’s tea-party took for her in an instant the dramatic zest and glamour.

“Look here, Mrs. Jellison,” she said, going up to her; “I was just going to leave these apples for your grandson.  Perhaps you’ll take them, now you’re here.  They’re quite sweet, though they look green.  They’re the best we’ve got, the gardener says.”

“Oh, they are, are they?” said Mrs. Jellison, composedly, looking up at her.  “Well, put ’em down, miss.  I dare say he’ll eat ’em.  He eats most things, and don’t want no doctor’s stuff nayther, though his mother do keep on at me for spoilin’ his stummuck.”

“You are just fond of that boy, aren’t you, Mrs. Jellison?” said Marcella, taking a wooden stool, the only piece of furniture left in the tiny cottage on which it was possible to sit, and squeezing herself into a corner by the fire, whence she commanded the whole group.  “No! don’t you turn Mr. Patton out of that chair, Mrs. Hurd, or I shall have to go away.”