The tall, slouching man scrutinized the various groups as he passed them, as though making up his mind whether to address them or not.  He wore a shabby greatcoat, warmer than the day demanded, and closely buttoned across the chest.  The rest of his dress, felt hat, dark trousers, and tan boots, had all of it come originally from expensive shops, but was now only just presentable.  The one thing in good condition about him was the Malacca cane he carried, which had a carved jade handle, and was altogether out of keeping with his general appearance.

All the same there was something striking in that appearance.  Face, figure and dress represented the wreck of more than one kind of distinction.  The face must once have been exceptionally handsome, before an underlying commonness and coarseness had been brought out or emphasized by developments of character and circumstance.  The mouth was now loose and heavy.  The hazel eyes had lost their youth, and were disfigured by the premature wrinkles of either ill-health or dissipation.  None the less, a certain carriage of the head and shoulders, a certain magnificence in the whole general outline of the man, especially in the defiant eyes and brow, marked him out from the crowd, and drew attention of strangers.

Many persons looked at him, as he at them, while he swung slowly along the road.  At last he crossed over towards an elderly man in company with a young soldier, who was walking lamely with a stick.

“Excuse me,” he said, formally, addressing the elder man, “but am I right for Ipscombe?”

“That you are, muster.  The next turnin’ to the right’ll bring yer to it.”  Peter Betts looked the stranger over as he spoke, with an inquisitive eye.

“You’ve come from the meeting, I suppose?”

“Ay.  We didn’t go to the service.  That worn’t in our line.  But we heerd the speeches out o’ doors.”

“The carts were fine!—­especially the second one.”

“Ay—­that’s our missis.  She and the two girls done the dressin’ o’ the cart.”

“What’s her name?”

“Well, her name’s Henderson,” said the old man, speaking with an amiable, half careless detachment, the manner rather of a philosopher than a gossip.

“She’s the farmer’s wife?”

“Noa, she ain’t.  She’s the farmer herself—­’at’s what she is.  She’s took the farm from Colonel Shepherd—­she did—­all on her own.  To be sure there’s Miss Leighton as lives with her.  But it do seem to me as Miss Henderson’s—­as you might say—­the top ‘un.  And me an’ James Halsey works for her.”

“Miss Henderson?  She’s not married?”

“Not she!” said old Betts emphatically.  “She’s like a lot o’ women nowadays, I guess.  They doan’t want to be married.”

“Perhaps nobody ’as wanted to marry ’em, dad!” said his elder son, grinning at his own stale jest.

Betts shook a meditative head.

“Noa—­yo’ll not explain it that way,” he said mildly.  “Some of ’em’s good-looking—­Miss Henderson ‘ersel’, by token.  A very ’andsome up-standin’ young woman is Miss Henderson.”