No one of any consequence had called upon her, though her drawing-room, with its black cushions and Watts pictures, was more fit to receive the well-born and well-bred than Joanna’s disgraceful parlour of oleographs and aspidistras and stuffed owls.  The Parson had “visited” Mrs. Alce a few weeks after her arrival, but a “visit” is not a call, and when at the end of three months his wife still ignored her existence, Ellen made Arthur come over with her to Brodnyx and Pedlinge on the Sundays she felt inclined to go to church, saying that she did not care for their ways at Romney, where they had a lot of ceremonial centering round the alms-dish.

It was bitter for her to have to watch Joanna’s steady rise in importance—­the only respect in which she felt bitter towards her sister, since it was the only respect in which she felt inferior to her.  After a time, Joanna discovered this.  At first she had enjoyed pouring out her triumphs to Ellen on her visits to Donkey Street, or on the rarer occasions when Ellen visited Ansdore.

“Yes, my dear, I’ve made up my mind.  I’m going to give a dinner-party—­a late dinner-party.  I shall ask the people to come at seven, and then not have dinner till the quarter, so as there’ll be no chance of the food being kept waiting.  I shall have soup and meat and a pudding, and wine to drink.”

“Who are you going to invite?” asked Ellen, with a curl of her lip.

“Why, didn’t I tell you?  Sir Harry Trevor’s coming back to North Farthing next month.  Mrs. Tolhurst got it from Peter Crouch, who had it from the Woolpack yesterday.  He’s coming down with his married sister, Mrs. Williams, and I’ll ask Mr. Pratt, so as there’ll be two gentlemen and two ladies.  I’d ask you, Ellen, only I know Arthur hasn’t got an evening suit.”

“Thanks.  I don’t care about dinner-parties.  Who’s going to do your waiting?”

“Mene Tekel.  She’s going to wear a cap, and stand in the room all the time.”

“I hope that you’ll be able to hear yourselves talk through her breathing.”

It struck Joanna that Ellen was not very cordial.

“I believe you want to come,” she said, “and I tell you, duckie, I’ll try and manage it.  It doesn’t matter about Arthur not having proper clothes—­I’ll put ‘evening dress optional’ on the invitations.”

“I shouldn’t do that,” said Ellen, and laughed in a way that made Joanna feel uncomfortable.  “I really don’t want to come in the least—­it would be very dreary driving to and fro.”

“Then what’s the matter, dearie?”

“Matter?  There’s nothing the matter.”

But Joanna knew that Ellen felt sore, and failing to discover the reason herself at last applied to Arthur Alce.

“If you ask me,” said Arthur, “it’s because she’s only a farmer’s wife.”

“Why should that upset her all of a sudden?”

“Well, folks don’t give her the consequence she’d like; and now she sees you having gentry at your table ...”