“Come to the Court to-morrow morning at ten, and we will look it over together,” she said.  “Good-morning, Buttle.”  And she went away.

In the taproom of The Clock, when Joe Buttle dropped in for his pot of beer, he found Fox, the saddler, and Tread, the blacksmith, and each of them fell upon the others with something of the same story to tell.  The new young lady from the Court had been to see them, too, and had brought to each her definite little note-book.  Harness was to be repaired and furbished up, the big carriage and the old phaeton were to be put in order, and Master Ughtred’s cart was to be given new paint and springs.

“This is what she said,” Fox’s story ran, “and she said it so straightforward and business-like that the conceitedest man that lived couldn’t be upset by it.  ‘I want to see what you can do,’ she says.  ’I am new to the place and I must find out what everyone can do, then I shall know what to do myself.’  The way she sets them eyes on a man is a sight.  It’s the sense in them and the human nature that takes you.”

“Yes, it’s the sense,” said Tread, “and her looking at you as if she expected you to have sense yourself, and understand that she’s doing fair business.  It’s clear-headed like—­her asking questions and finding out what Stornham men can do.  She’s having the old things done up so that she can find out, and so that she can prove that the Court work is going to be paid for.  That’s my belief.”

“But what does it all mean?” said Joe Buttle, setting his pot of beer down on the taproom table, round which they sat in conclave.  “Where’s the money coming from?  There’s money somewhere.”

Tread was the advanced thinker of the village.  He had come—­through reverses—­from a bigger place.  He read the newspapers.

“It’ll come from where it’s got a way of coming,” he gave forth portentously.  “It’ll come from America.  How they manage to get hold of so much of it there is past me.  But they’ve got it, dang ’em, and they’re ready to spend it for what they want, though they’re a sharp lot.  Twelve years ago there was a good bit of talk about her ladyship’s father being one of them with the fullest pockets.  She came here with plenty, but Sir Nigel got hold of it for his games, and they’re the games that cost money.  Her ladyship wasn’t born with a backbone, poor thing, but this new one was, and her ladyship’s father is her father, and you mark my words, there’s money coming into Stornham, though it’s not going to be played the fool with.  Lord, yes! this new one has a backbone and good strong wrists and a good strong head, though I must say”—­with a little masculine chuckle of admission—­“it’s a bit unnatural with them eyelashes and them eyes looking at you between ’em.  Like blue water between rushes in the marsh.”