As the master was away and no kind of state necessary, she breakfasted in the kitchen with Mary and Mrs. Goudie.  Her baby was asleep in its cradle, which she gently swung with her foot while eating; and the three women all spoke whisperingly.  The pots and pans were shining, the hearthstone was white as snow, and through the open doorway one had a pretty little picture of the back pathway, the end of the barn, and a drooping branch of the walnut trees.  From the yard beyond came sounds of industrious activity—­the rumble of a wagon being pulled from the pent-house, the thump of sacks being let down on the pulleys, and the intermittent buzz of a chaff-cutting machine.

Presently somebody appeared on the pathway, and came slowly and shyly toward the door.

“Oh, bother,” said Mary.  “If it isn’t Mr. Druitt again.”

“Good mornin’, mum,” said the visitor, diffidently.  “Would you be doing with an egg or so?”

Mr. Druitt had been introduced by Mrs. Goudie as the higgler, or itinerant poulterer and greengrocer, who served the house in Mr. Bates’ time.  He was a thin middle-aged man, with light watery eyes, a straggling beard, and an astoundingly dilatory manner.  He used to pull his pony and cart into the hedge or bank by the roadside, and leave them there an unconscionable time, while he pottered about the back doors of his customers, offering the articles that he had brought with him, or trying to obtain orders for other articles that he would bring next week; and although apparently so shy himself, no bruskness in others ever seemed to rebuff him.  His arrival now broke up the breakfast party, and was accepted as a signal that the day’s labors must really be attacked.  Mrs. Goudie and Mary pushed back their chairs with a horrid scrooping noise, Mavis got up briskly, the baby awoke and began to cry.

“No, thank you, Mr. Druitt.  Nothing this morning.”

“I’ve some sweet-hearted cabbages outside.”

“No, thank you.”

“It’s wonderful late to get ’em with any heart to ’em.  I’ll fetch ’em.”

Thus, as was usual, the higgler went backward and forward between the door and his cart; and Mavis, with the baby on her arm, at intervals inspected various commodities.  Eventually she purchased a capon for the Sunday dinner, paid for it, and bade Mr. Druitt good-by.

“Good-by, mum—­and much obliged.”

But then, quite ten minutes afterward, his shadow once more fell across the kitchen floor.  He had not really gone yet.  Here he was back again at the kitchen door, staring reflectively at his grubby little pocketbook.

“Beg pardon—­but did I mention the side o’ bacon I’ve been promised for Tuesday.  It’s good bacon.”

Mavis Dale with courteous finality dismissed him; but Mary, whose ordinarily red cheeks had become a fiery crimson, spoke hotly and angrily.

“Drat the man.  I’ve no patience with him.  He ought to know better, going on so.”