might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. She would make little sweet muffins and butter them well while hot. "Make plenty of tea," said Derek. "Mr. Ramsey can drink a potful."
"He's got a thirst for more than tea from what I hear," said Mrs. Machin. "They say he can swig down beer with the best of 'em at The Duke of York."
"Oh, Mrs. Machin!" cried Phœbe, shocked.
"You get busy and cut some bread," ordered Mrs. Machin.
"And for heaven's sake, cut it thin!" said Vale. . . .
Tea was a distinct success. The Vicar found the muffins excellent. He sent a message of praise by Phœbe to Mrs. Machin. Phœbe, pink-cheeked and white-aproned, bore herself admirably. Grace Jerrold admired the homely dignity of the old-fashioned room. As she poured tea into his grandmother's dark blue cups, Derek thought, "How thoroughly at home she looks . . . as if she belonged here . . . and the turn of her wrist above the tea-pot . . ." He asked for another cup of tea just for the pleasure of seeing her pour it.
"Some of those young Indian girls are lovely," Mr. Jerrold was saying. "Hobbs caught one of them in my woods the other day with a rabbit she had just killed. She'd set a trap for it. He brought her to me, rabbit and all, for a lecture, but she was so confoundedly pretty I couldn't be cross to her. She said her name was Fawnie—Fawnie Sharroe. Have you noticed her, Vale?"
"Yes," answered Derek, stirring his tea. "I've noticed her."
