“He’s after that slip of a Nance,” she said to herself.  “And he has his own share of good looks, has that young man.”—­And then came the inevitable, “Mon Dieu, but I wish Tom had been made like that!”

To get a better view of him—­and perhaps not without a vague idea of ulterior interest and amusement for herself—­anything to add a dash of colour to the prevailing greyness of her surroundings—­she was leaning on the gate next day when he came striding up to his dinner, and gave him, “Bon jour, m’sieur!” with much heartiness and the full benefit of her black eyes and white teeth.

“’Jour, madame!” and he whipped off his hat and passed on into the house.

“That was Madame Tom, I suppose, who was leaning over the gate, as I came in,” he said, as they ate.

“I expect so,” said Mrs. Hamon.  “She generally seems to have time on her hands.”

“When Tom’s not there,” snapped Grannie.  “Got her hands full enough when he is.”

“I should imagine Tom would not be too easy to get on with at times.  Maybe he’ll settle down now he’s married.”

“Doesn’t sound like settling down sometimes,” chirped the old lady again.

“Oh?  I’m sorry to hear that.  She doesn’t look bad-tempered.”

“Tom’s got more’n enough for the two of them.”

“I’m afraid she finds it a change from what she’s been accustomed to,” said Mrs. Hamon quietly.  “She came in once or twice, but her talk is of things that don’t interest us, and ours is of things that don’t interest her, so we can’t get as friendly as we would like to be.”

“And Tom?”

“Tom considers us all robbers, as he always has done.  He gives us his blackest face whenever he sees any of us.”

“That’s unpleasant, seeing you’re such close neighbours.”

“Yes, it’s unpleasant, but we can’t help it.  It’s just Tom.  How is your work getting on?”

“Not as I would wish,” said Gard, with a gloomy wag of the head.  “Your Sark men are difficult—­very difficult, and the others who ought to know better, and who do know better”—­with more than a touch of warmth—­“go on as though I was a slave-driver.”

“Sark men are hard to drive,” said Mrs. Hamon sympathetically.

“They know perfectly well that I want only what is just and right to the shareholders.  They expect their pay to the last penny, but when I insist on a proper return for it they look at me as if they’d like to knock me on the head.  It’s disheartening work.  I’ve been tempted at times to throw it all up and go back to England”—­at which Nance’s heart gave so unusual a little kick that she had difficulty in frowning it into quietude, and just then Bernel came in with his gun and a couple of rabbits.

“Who’s going to England?” he asked.  “I’ll go too.”

“No you won’t,” said Nance sharply.  “We want you here.”

“It’s as dull as Beauregard pond and as dirty, since the m—­aw—­um!” with a deprecatory glance at Gard.