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"
She strode away, munching her crust, and Sophie reeled breathless
into the parlour, to shake the shaking George.
"Why did you keep catching my eye behind the blind? Why didn't
you come out and do your duty?"
"Because I should have burst. Did you see the mud on its cheek?"
he said.
"Once. I daren't look again. Who is she?"
"God--a local deity then. Anyway, she's another of the things
you're expected to know by instinct."
Mrs. Cloke, shocked at their levity, told them that it was Lady
Conant, wife of Sir Walter Conant, Baronet, a large landholder in
the neighbourhood; and if not God; at least His visible
Providence. George made her talk of that family for an hour.
"Laughter," said Sophie afterward in their own room, "is the mark
of the savage. Why couldn't you control your emotions? It's all
real to her."
"It's all real to me. That's my trouble," he answered in an
altered tone. "Anyway, it's real enough to mark time with. Don't
you think so?"
"What d'you mean?" she asked quickly, though she knew his voice.


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