streamers. The auctioneer had to pound his hammer on the table to make the men look at him. They all wanted to stare at her. . . ." He picked up Punch again and began to read as Phœbe entered with the tray.
"What next?" asked Derek, when the door had closed behind her.
"Snailem tied his nag to the fence and joined some loafers on a back bench. Fawnie paraded up and down under that row of maples. Their leaves are all turning red and the whole effect was—garish. She'd toss her head so the green streamers would flutter—the kid had a toy balloon—and every now and again she'd trot round to the front of the pram and arrange the pink bow, or take a sweet out of a paper bag at his feet."
"Where is she now? Why didn't you bring her home?"
"Bring her home! I see myself. I got out as soon as I had paid for the horse. The last I saw of her she was on her way to the house where some furniture was to be sold. She was with a crowd of well-to-do men and their wives from Brancepeth. What do you suppose made her do it?"
"Pure cussedness. Nothing else under the sun."
Phœbe brought some boiled eggs and they ate in silence for a while, each contemplating Fawnie's wickedness from his own angle. Then Derek asked.
"How did things go?"
Edmund groaned. "About as badly as possible. The implements were the worst. Implements that had cost two hundred dollars, as good as new, went for thirty or forty. Separators, incubators—just given away. The stock wasn't so bad. But bad enough. I paid one hundred and eighty for Darby. Hobbs wanted him. He's a beast that fellow. He has bought the place and enough stock and implements to run it in a modest way. But he'll branch out. He'll do better for himself than he ever did for Jerrold. . . . He
