After another mile they came to Vine-Pits Farm, the home of Mr. Bates the corn-merchant.  It was one of the few stone houses of the district, a compact snug-looking nucleus from which an irregular wing, rather higher than the main building, advanced to the very edge of the roadway.  A much smaller wing, merely an excrescence, on the other side, seemed as if it had gone as far as it could in the direction of making a quadrangle and had then given over the task to a broad low wall.  The square piece of garden, though untidy and neglected, derived a great air of dignity from its stone surrounding, and importance was added to the house by the solid range of outbuildings, barns, and stables.  A rick yard with haystacks so big that they showed above the tops of fruit trees and yews, three or four wagons and carts, half a dozen busy men, made the whole Bates establishment seem quite like a thriving little town all to itself.

“It’s a funny name, Vine-Pits,” said Mavis, still making conversation.  “I wonder why ever they called it that.”

“There was formerly a quantity of old pits ’longside the rick-bargan—­same as you see forcing-pits at a market-gardener’s—­and the tale goes that they were orig’nally placed there for the purpose of growing grapes on the same principle as cucumbers or melons.”

“What a funny idea!”

“’Twas a failure.  Sort of a gentleman farmer had the notion he knew better than others, and tried it on year after year till he made a laughing-stock of himself.  Anyhow, that’s the tale.  Mr. Bates has shown me the basis of the pits—­built over now by the buildings you were looking at.  Ah, here is the old fellow.”

Mr. Bates driving toward them in his gig pulled up, and invited Dale to do so also.

“How are you, William?” And he took off his hat to Mrs. Dale.  “Your servant, madam.  Turn head about, William, and come into my place and take a bit of refreshment.”

“No, thank you, Mr. Bates.  Not to-day.  Some other time.”

“No time like the present.  A cup of tea, Mrs. Dale.  I don’t care to see those I count as friends pass my place without stopping.”

“I know you mean what you say,” said Dale cordially; “but we’re for Old Manninglea—­business appointment.”

“Then I mustn’t hinder you.  But look in on your way back.  Your servant, madam.”

Mavis liked the fresh clean complexion and the silvery white hair of Mr. Bates, and there was something very pleasing in his old-fashioned mode of address, his courteous way of saluting her, and his gentle friendly smile as he spoke to her husband.

“Will,” she said, as they drove on, “I believe Mr. Bates is really fond of you.”

Dale gave a snort; and then after a long pause spoke with strong emphasis.

“I’ll tell you, Mavis, what Mr. Bates is.  He’s a good man, every bit and crumb of him.  There’s no one between the downs and the sea that I feel the same respect for that I do for that old gentleman.”