“The Revercombs over at the mill are kicking up a row, mother,” he said suddenly, again filling his wine glass and again putting it down empty, “have they any sort of standing in the county, do you suppose?”

“I’ve heard they call themselves connections of the Revercombs higher in the State, dear—­but I don’t know and I’ve never come into contact with any of the country people about here.  Kesiah may be able to tell you.”

Until then neither of them had alluded to Kesiah, whom they accepted by ignoring much as if she had been one of the familiar pieces of furniture, at which they never glanced because they were so firmly convinced that it stood in its place.  She had eaten her dinner with the relish of a person to whom food, taken at regular hours three times a day, has become the prime consolation in life; and when the question was put to her, she was obliged to ask them to repeat it because she had been thoughtfully regarding a dish of baked tomatoes and wondering if a single yielding to temptation would increase a tendency to the gout that had lately developed.

“What do you know of the Revercombs, Kesiah?  Are they in any degree above the common people about here?”

“The miller is a rather extraordinary character, I believe,” she answered, lifting the spoon out of the dish of tomatoes as it was handed to her, and then shaking her head with a sigh and letting it fall.  “Mr. Chamberlayne says he is quite well educated, but the rest of them, of course, are very primitive and plain.  They have always been strait-laced and honest and I hear that the mother—­she came from Piping Tree and was one of the Hawtreys—­is violently opposed to her son’s marriage with Molly Merryweather.  There is a daughter, also, who is said to be beautiful though rather dull.”

“Yes, I’ve seen the girl,” observed Mrs. Gay, “heavy and blond, isn’t she?  The mother, I should say, is decidedly the character of the family.  She has rather terrible convictions, and once a great many years ago, she came over here—­forced her way into my sick-room to rebuke me about the behaviour of the servants or something.  Your Uncle Jonathan was obliged to lead her out and pacify her—­she was quite upset, I remember.  By the way, Kesiah,” she pursued, “haven’t I heard that Mr. Mullen is attentive to the daughter?  It seems a pity, for he is quite a superior young man—­his sermons are really remarkable, and he might easily have done better.”

“Oh, that was when he first came here, Angela, before he met Molly Merryweather.  It’s singular the fascination that girl possesses for the men around here.”

Gay laughed shortly.  “Well, it’s a primitive folk, isn’t it?” he said, “and gets on my nerves after a while.”