Joan. [Bowing coldly.] Good afternoon, George.

Miles. [Aside to Luke.] Now that’s what I call a bit of stylish breeding.

[George has made no answer to JOAN’s bow.  He quietly ignores it, and takes up his pail of water.  As he does so he catches sight of Clara, who has been watching the whole scene from the corner where she is partly concealed.  He looks at her for one moment, and then sets the bucket down again.

Thomas.  Why, George—­I guess as it’s took you as it took me, us didn’t think how ’twould appear when Miss Clara was growed up.

George. [Quietly.] No, us did not, master.

[He carries his pail into the back kitchen as Emily and the children come in.

Emily.  What’s all this to-do in my kitchen, I should like to know?

Thomas.  Us did but come up for to—­to give a handshake to sister Clara, like.

Emily.  Well, now you can go off back to work again.  And you—­ [turning to Joan]—­now that you’ve finished curling of your hair and dressing of yourself up, you can go and sit down in the best parlour along with your fancy gentlemen.

Miles. [Offering his arm to Joan.] It will be my sweet pleasure to conduct Missy to the parlour.

[Luke offers his arm on the other side, and Joan moves off with both the young men.

Joan. [As she goes.] Indeed, I shall be glad to rest on a comfortable couch.  I’m dead tired of the country air already.

Robin. [Calling after her.] You’ll not go off to sleep afore the chicken and sparrow grass is ate, will you, Aunt?

[Miles, Luke and Joan having gone out, Emily begins to bang the chairs back in their places and to arrange the room, watched by the two children.  Clara, who has remained half hidden by the door, now goes quietly upstairs.

Emily. [Calling.] Here, George, Mag.

[George comes in.

Emily.  Well, George, ’tisn’t much worse nor I expected.

Jessie.  I don’t like Aunt Clara.

Robin.  I hates her very much.

George. [Slowly.] And I don’t seem to fancy her neither.

[Curtain.]

Act III.—­Scene 1.

Two days have passed by.

It is morning.  Clara, wearing an apron and a muslin cap on her head, sits by the kitchen table mending a lace handkerchief.  Maggie, who is dusting the plates on the dressers, pauses to watch her.

Maggie.  I’d sooner sweep the cow sheds out and that I would, nor have to set at such a niggly piece of sewing work as you.

Clara.  I cannot do it quickly, it is so fine.

Maggie.  I count ’tis very nigh as bad as the treadmills, serving a young miss such as yourn be.