Delane followed all these remarks with close attention, and continued a rather skilful examination.  He learnt that Great End was a farm of about two hundred and fifty acres, that Miss Henderson seemed to have “lots o’ money,” and had sold her autumn crops very well, that Miss Leighton managed the stock and the dairy with the help of two land-girls, and it was thought by the village that the two ladies “was doin’ fine.”

Arrived at the village, Betts turned into his cottage, with a nod to his companion, and Delane went on his way.

The lane on the farther side of the village was dark under branching trees.  Delane stumbled along it, coughing at intervals, and gripped by the rising chill of the September evening.  A little beyond the trees he caught sight of the farm against the hill.  Yes, it was lonesome, as the old man said, but a big, substantial-looking place.  Rachel’s place!  And Rachel had “lots o’ money”—­and as to her health and well-being, why the sight of her on that cart was enough.  That vision of her indeed—­of the flushed, smiling face under the khaki hat, of the young form in the trim tunic and leggings, and, not least, of the admiring crowd about her, kept returning upon the man’s furious sense as something not to be borne, a recurrent blow from which he could not escape.

And that American chap—­that Yankee officer who had walked off with her to the church—­what was the meaning of that?  They were not strangers, that was plain.  She had beckoned to him from the cart.  The manner of their short conversation, indeed, showed them well acquainted.  She told him to go and speak—­and he had gone—­with alacrity—­smiling back at her.  Courting, no doubt!  Rachel could never let a man alone—­or live, without a man after her.  A brutal phrase shaped itself—­a vile epithet or two—­flung into the solitude of the lane.

When he emerged from the trees into a space of greater light between two stubble fields, Delane suddenly drew a letter from his pocket.  While Rachel was flaunting with “lots of money”—­this was how his affairs were going.

“DEAR ROGER,—­I can do nothing for you.  Your demands are simply insatiable.  If you write me any more begging letters, or if you attempt again to force your way into my house as you did last week, I shall tell the bank to cancel your allowance, and wash my hands of you altogether.  My husband’s determined to stop this kind of thing.  Don’t imagine you can either threaten us, or come round us.  We have tried again and again to help and reform you.  It is no good—­and now we give you up.  You have worn us out.  If you are wise, you will not answer this—­and if you keep quiet the allowance shall be continued.  MARIANNE TILNEY.”

That was a nice letter to get from a man’s only sister!  Allowance!  What was L100 a year to a woman as rich as Marianne?  And what was the use of L100 a year to him, with living at the price it was now?  His wretched pittance besides, doled out to him by his father’s trustees under his father’s will, brought his whole income up to L300 a year.  How was a man to live on that, and support a woman and child?