"I've thought that out too. We've got
back at the English at last. Can't you see that she thought that
we thought my mother's being a Lashmar was one of those things
we'd expect the English to find out for themselves, and that's
impressed her?" She turned the mug in her white hands, and sighed
happily. "'Wayte awhyle--wayte awhyle.' That's not a bad motto,
George. It's been worth it."
"But still I don't quite see--"
"I shouldn't wonder if they don't think our coming here was part
of a deep-laid scheme to be near our ancestors. They'd understand
that. And look how they've accepted us, all of them."
"Are we so undesirable in ourselves?" George grunted.
"Be just, me lord. That wretched Sangres man has twice our money.
Can you see Marm Conant slapping him between the shoulders? Not
by a jugful! The poor beast doesn't exist!"
"Do you think it's that then?" He looked toward the cot by the
fire where the godling snorted.
"The minute I get well I shall find out from Mrs. Cloke what
every Lashmar gives in doles (that's nicer than tips) every time
a Lashmite is born.
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