It was not till nearly a month later that Joanna heard that people were “talking” about Ellen and Sir Harry.  Gossip generally took some time to reach her, owing to her sex, which was not privileged to frequent the Woolpack bar, where rumours invariably had a large private circulation before they were finally published at some auction or market.  She resented this disability, but in spite of the general daring of her outlook and behaviour, nothing would have induced her to enter the Woolpack save by the discreet door of the landlady’s parlour, where she occasionally sipped a glass of ale.  However, she had means of acquiring knowledge, though not so quickly as those women who were provided with husbands and sons.  On this occasion Mene Tekel Fagge brought the news, through the looker at Slinches, with whom she was walking out.

“That’ll do, Mene,” said Joanna to her handmaiden, “you always was the one to pick up idle tales, and Dansay should ought to be ashamed of himself, drinking and talking the way he does.  Now you go and tell Peter Crouch to bring me round the trap.”

She drove off to Donkey Street, carrying her scandal to its source.  She was extremely angry—­not that for one moment she believed in the truth of those accusations brought against her sister, but Ellen was just the sort of girl, with her airs and notions, to get herself talked about at the Woolpack, and it was disgraceful to have such things said about one, even if they were not true.  There was a prickly heat of shame in Joanna’s blood as she hustled the mare over the white loops of the Romney road.

The encounter with Ellen made her angrier still.

“I don’t care what they say,” said her sister, “why should I mind what a public-house bar says against me?”

“Well, you should ought to mind—­it’s shameful.”

“They’ve said plenty against you.”

“Not that sort of thing.”

“I’d rather have that sort of thing said about me than some.”

“Ellen!”

“Well, the Squire’s isn’t a bad name to have coupled with mine, if they must couple somebody’s.”

“I wonder you ain’t afraid of being struck dead, talking like that—­you with the most kind, good-tempered and lawful husband that ever was.”

“Do you imagine that I’m disloyal to Arthur?”

“Howsumever could you think I’d dream of such a thing?”

“Well, it’s the way you’re talking.”

“It ain’t.”

“Then why are you angry?”

“Because you shouldn’t ought to get gossiped about like that.”

“It isn’t my fault.”

“It is.  You shouldn’t ought to have Sir Harry about the place as much as you do.  The last two times I’ve been here, he’s been too.”

“I like him—­he amuses me.”

“I like him too, but he ain’t worth nothing, and he’s got a bad name.  You get shut of him, Ellen—­I know him, and I know a bit about him; he ain’t the sort of man to have coming to your house when folks are talking.”