“I came back this morning.  This is Miss Melville, whom I went to meet.  She is going to marry Richard very soon.”  Marion did not, Ellen noticed with exasperation, make any adequate response to this generous little trill of greeting.  The best she seemed able to do was to speak slowly, as if to disclaim any desire to hurry on.

“Oh, how do you do?  I am pleased I met you on the very first day.”  The old lady smiled into Ellen’s eyes and shook her hand as if she meant to lay at her disposal all this amiability that had been reared by tranquil years on the leeward side of life.  “This will be a surprise for Roothing.  We all thought Mr. Yaverland would never look at any woman but his mother.  Such a son he is!” Ellen was annoyed that Marion smiled only vaguely in answer to this mention of her astonishing good fortune in being Richard’s mother.  “I hope Mr. Winter will have the pleasure of marrying you.”

“I’m afraid not,” said Ellen with concern.  “I’m Presbyterian, and Episcopalianism does not attract me.”

“Oh dear!  Oh dear!  That’s a pity,” said the old lady, with a pretty flight of hilarity.  “Still, I hope you’ll ask us to the wedding.  I’ve known Richard since he was a week old.  Haven’t I, Mrs. Yaverland?  He was the loveliest baby I’ve ever seen, and later on I think the handsomest boy.  Nobody ever looked at my Billy or George when Richard was about.  And now—­well, I needn’t tell you, young lady, what he’s like now.  I’m glad I’ve met you.  I’ve just been up at Mrs. More’s.”

“Who is Mrs. More?” asked Marion heavily.

“The new people who have the small-holding at Coltsfoot the Brights had before.  I think he used to be a clerk, and came into a little money and bought the holding, and now they’re finding it very difficult to get along.”

“This small-holding business ought to be stopped.”

“Why?” asked Ellen peevishly.  Marion seemed to reject everything, and she was sure that she had seen small-holdings recommended in Labour Party literature.  “I thought it was sound.”

“Not here.  Speculators buy up big farms and cut them into small-holdings and sell them to townspeople, who starve on them or sell them at a loss.  The land’s wasted for good, and all because it can’t be farmed again once it’s been cut up.  To all intents and purposes it’s wiped off the map.  It’s a scandal.”

“It is a shame,” agreed the old lady.  “I often say that something ought to be done.  Well, the poor woman’s lost her baby.”

“Bad business,” said Marion.

“Such a pretty little girl.  Six months.  I’ve been up seeing them putting her in the coffin.  The mother was so upset.  I was with her all day yesterday.”

“I’ve seen the place,” said Marion.  “As ugly as one of the Hallelujah Army shanties.  What this bit of country’s coming to!  And Coltsfoot was a good farm when I was a girl.”