“You seem so unlike an American,” she said once in her most tactful, ingratiating manner—­which was very ingratiating indeed.

“Do I?  What is one like when one is like an American?  I am one, you know.”

“I can scarcely believe it,” with sweet ardour.

“Pray try,” said Betty with simple brevity, and Mrs. Brent felt that perhaps Miss Vanderpoel was not really very easy to get on with.

“She meant to imply that I did not speak through my nose, and talk too much, and too vivaciously, in a shrill voice,” Betty said afterwards, in talking the interview over with Rosy.  “I like to convince myself that is not one’s sole national characteristic.  Also it was not exactly Mrs. Brent’s place to kindly encourage me with the information that I do not seem to belong to my own country.”

Lady Anstruthers laughed, and Betty looked at her inquiringly.

“You said that just like—­just like an Englishwoman.”

“Did I?” said Betty.

Mrs. Brent had come to talk to her because she did not wish to trouble dear Lady Anstruthers.  Lady Anstruthers already looked much stronger, but she had been delicate so long that one hesitated to distress her with village matters.  She did not add that she realised that she was coming to headquarters.  The vicar and herself were much disturbed about a rather tiresome old woman—­old Mrs. Welden—­who lived in a tiny cottage in the village.  She was eighty-three years old, and a respectable old person—­a widow, who had reared ten children.  The children had all grown up, and scattered, and old Mrs. Welden had nothing whatever to live on.  No one knew how she lived, and really she would be better off in the workhouse.  She could be sent to Brexley Union, and comfortably taken care of, but she had that singular, obstinate dislike to going, which it was so difficult to manage.  She had asked for a shilling a week from the parish, but that could not be allowed her, as it would merely uphold her in her obstinate intention of remaining in her cottage, and taking care of herself—­which she could not do.  Betty gathered that the shilling a week would be a drain on the parish funds, and would so raise the old creature to affluence that she would feel she could defy fate.  And the contumacity of old men and women should not be strengthened by the reckless bestowal of shillings.

Knowing that Miss Vanderpoel had already gained influence among the village people, Mrs. Brent said, she had come to ask her if she would see old Mrs. Welden and argue with her in such a manner as would convince her that the workhouse was the best place for her.  It was, of course, so much pleasanter if these old people could be induced to go to Brexley willingly.

“Shall I be undermining the whole Political Economy of Stornham if I take care of her myself?” suggested Betty.

“You—­you will lead others to expect the same thing will be done for them.”