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“You’ll find a bit in the front,” I says, “to the left of the gate,” and she went out. She came back looking scared.

“Anybody keep goats round here?” she asked me.

“Not that I know of, nearer than Ibstone Common,” I says.

“I could have sworn I saw a goat’s face looking at me out of the gooseberry bushes while I was picking the parsley,” she says. “It had a beard.”

“It’s the half light,” I says. “One can imagine anything.”

“I do hope I’m not getting nervy,” she says.

I thought I’d have another look round, and made the excuse that I wanted a pail of water. I was stooping over the well, which is just under the mulberry tree, when something fell close to me and lodged upon the bricks. It was a hairpin. I fixed the cover carefully upon the well in case of accident, and when I got in I went round myself and was careful to see that all the curtains were drawn.

Just before we three sat down to dinner again I took cook aside.

“I shouldn’t go for any stroll in the garden to-night,” I says. “People from the village may be about, and we don’t want them gossiping.” And she thanked me.

Next night they were there again. I thought I wouldn’t spoil the dinner, but mention it afterwards. I saw to it again that the curtains were drawn, and slipped the catch of both the doors. And just as well that I did.

I had always heard that Mr. Parable was an amusing speaker, but on previous visits had not myself noticed it. But this time he seemed ten years younger than I had ever known him before; and during dinner, while we were talking and laughing quite merry like, I had the feeling more than once that people were meandering about outside. I had just finished clearing away, and cook was making the coffee, when there came a knock at the door.

“Who’s that?” says Mr. Parable. “I am not at home to anyone.”

“I’ll see,” I says. And on my way I slipped into the kitchen.

“Coffee for one, cook,” I says, and she understood. Her cap and apron were hanging behind the door. I flung them across to her, and she caught them; and then I opened the front door.

They pushed past me without speaking, and went straight into the parlour. And they didn’t waste many words on him either.

“Where is she?” asked Miss Bulstrode.

“Where’s who?” says Mr. Parable.

“Don’t lie about it,” said Miss Bulstrode, making no effort to control herself. “The hussy you’ve been dining with?”

“Do you mean Mrs. Meadows?” says Mr. Parable.

I thought she was going to shake him.

“Where have you hidden her?” she says.

It was at that moment cook entered with the coffee.

If they had taken the trouble to look at her they might have had an idea. The tray was trembling in her hands, and in her haste and excitement she had put on her cap the wrong way round. But she kept control of her voice, and asked if she should bring some more coffee.

“Ah, yes! You’d all like some coffee, wouldn’t you?” says Mr. Parable. Miss Bulstrode did not reply, but Mr. Quincey said he was cold and would like it. It was a nasty night, with a thin rain.

“Thank you, sir,” says cook, and we went out together.

Cottages are only cottages, and if people in the parlour persist in talking loudly, people in the kitchen can’t very well help overhearing.

There was a good deal of talk about “fourteen days,” which Mr. Parable said he was going to do himself, and which Miss Dorton said he mustn’t, because, if he did, it would be a victory for the enemies of humanity. Mr. Parable said something about “humanity,” which I didn’t rightly hear, but, whatever it was, it started Miss Dorton crying; and Miss Bulstrode called Mr. Parable a “blind Samson,” who had had his hair cut by a designing minx who had been hired to do it.