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When the load was teemed, they gathered round the white cloth, which was spread under a tree between the hedge and the stack, and, sitting on the ground, ate their meal. Mrs Wookey sent always a clean cloth, and knives and forks and plates for everybody. Mr Wookey was always rather proud of this spread: everything was so proper.

“There now,” he said, sitting down jovially.”Doesn’t this look nice now–eh?”

They all sat round the white spread, in the shadow of the tree and the stack, and looked out up the fields as they ate. From their shady coolness, the gold sward seemed liquid, molten with heat. The horse with the empty wagon wandered a few yards, then stood feeding. Everything was still as a trance. Now and again, the horse between the shafts of the load that stood propped beside the stack, jingled his loose bit as he ate. The men ate and drank in silence, the father reading the newspaper, Maurice leaning back on a saddle, Henry reading the Nation,the others eating busily.

Presently “Helloa! ‘Er’s ‘ere again!” exclaimed Bill. All looked up. Paula was coming across the field carrying a plate.

“She’s bringing something to tempt your appetite, Maurice,” said the eldest brother ironically. Maurice was midway through a large wedge of rabbit pie, and some cold potatoes.

“Aye, bless me if she’s not,” laughed the father.”Put that away, Maurice, it’s a shame to disappoint her.”

Maurice looked round very shamefaced, not knowing what to do with his plate.

“Give it over here,” said Bill.”I’ll polish him off.”

“Bringing something for the invalid?” laughed the father to the Fräulein.”He’s looking up nicely.”

“I bring him some chicken, him!” She nodded her head at Maurice childishly. He flushed and smiled.

“Tha doesna mean ter bust ‘im,” said Bill.

Everybody laughed aloud. The girl did not understand, so she laughed also. Maurice ate his portion very sheepishly.

The father pitied his son’s shyness.

“Come here and sit by me,” he said.”Eh, Fräulein! Is that what they call you?”

“I sit by you, Father,” she said innocently.

Henry threw his head back and laughed long and noiselessly.

She settled near to the big, handsome man.

“My name,” she said, “is Paula Jablonowsky.”

“Is what?” said the father, and the other men went into roars of laughter.

“Tell me again,” said the father.”Your name–?”

“Paula.”

“Paula? Oh–well, it’s a rum sort of name, eh? His name–” he nodded at his son.

“Maurice–I know.” She pronounced it sweetly, then laughed into the father’s eyes. Maurice blushed to the roots of his hair.

They questioned her concerning her history, and made out that she came from Hanover, that her father was a shop-keeper, and that she had run away from home because she did not like her father. She had gone to Paris.

“Oh,” said the father, now dubious.”And what did you do there?”

“In school–in a young ladies’ school.”

“Did you like it?”

“Oh no–no laïfe–no life!”

“What?”

“When we go out–two and two–all together–no more. Ah, no life, no life.”

“Well, that’s a winder!” exclaimed the father.”No life in Paris! And have you found much life in England?”

“No–ah no. I don’t like it.” She made a grimace at the Vicarage.

“How long have you been in England?”

“Chreestmas–so.”

“And what will you do?”

“I will go to London, or to Paris. Ah, Paris!–Or get married!” She laughed into the father’s eyes.

The father laughed heartily.

“Get married, eh? And who to?”

“I don’t know. I am going away.”

“The country’s too quiet for you?” asked the father.

“Too quiet–hm!” she nodded in assent.

“You wouldn’t care for making butter and cheese?”

“Making butter–hm!” She turned to him with a glad, bright gesture.”I like it.”

“Oh,” laughed the father.”You would, would you?”

She nodded vehemently, with glowing eyes.

“She’d like anything in the shape of a change,” said Henry judicially.

“I think she would,” agreed the father. It did not occur to them that she fully understood what they said. She looked at them closely, then thought with bowed head.

“Hullo!” exclaimed Henry, the alert. A tramp was slouching towards them through the gap. He was a very seedy, slinking fellow, with a tang of horsey braggadocio about him. Small, thin, and ferrety, with a week’s red beard bristling on his pointed chin, he came slouching forward.

“Have yer got a bit of a job goin’?” he asked.

“A bit of a job,” repeated the father.”Why, can’t you see as we’ve a’most done?”