"Phoebe, get up out of that chair and speak to Mr. Vale." But the girl, though she rose, uncovering her comely, red face, would not speak. She stared, teetering on her feet, and holding to McKay's coat sleeve.
"Are you Scotch, too?" asked Derek.
"No, she comes from Kent. She used to work in the hop-fields," replied McKay. "That's where she learned to dance."
"To hop, as it were," said Derek. The joke brought a roar of laughter from the men.
"This is Mr. Windmill," interrupted Mrs. Machin. He threw away his cigarette and came forward. "He's out here to study farming. But he just works and lives like the rest of us. Except he wears gloves to plough."
Windmill flushed but smiled good-humouredly. "The horses don't seem to mind me having gloves on."
"No, but Mike minded you having boots on when you kicked him the other day."
"Didn't I say she'd be givin' us all characters?" said McKay.
Mrs. Machin had lighted a tall, brass lamp; picking it up, she said: "Well, you've had a look at us, Mr. Vale, and if you'll come to the dining room now, I'll lay you a bit of supper." As she preceded Derek with the lamp, she called back, "Wood and water, boys."
She was a repellent old woman, he thought, with her yellow face, black, oily hair, eyes the colour of an oyster, and stiff, white apron. And she had hurried him out of the kitchen, his own kitchen, in a very domineering fashion. Well, since she seemed so capable, and so used to ordering the men about, it would relieve him of the necessity of taking the reins into his unaccustomed hands at once.
The dining room was a low-ceilinged room wainscoted in
