knocking at the front door asking for a pound as a stop-gap while your other people were short. If you go to Brown's you go to Brown's, an' my butter isn't just to make shift when Brown's has got none.
Brangwen understood perfectly this unspoken speech of Tilly's. The Polish lady did not. And as she wanted butter for the vicar, and as Tilly was churning in the morning, she waited.
"Sluther up now," said Brangwen loudly after this silence had resolved itself out; and Tilly disappeared through the inner door.
"I am afraid that I should not come, so," said the stranger, looking at him enquiringly, as if referring to him for what it was usual to do.
He felt confused.
"How's that?" he said, trying to be genial and being only protective.
"Do you?" she began deliberately. But she was not sure of her ground, and the conversation came to an end. Her eyes looked at him all the while, because she could not speak the language.
They stood facing each other. The dog walked away from her to him. He bent down to it.
"And how's your little girl?" he asked.
"Yes, thank you, she is very well," was the reply, a phrase of polite speech in a foreign language merely.
"Sit you down," he said.
And she sat in a chair, her slim arms, coming through the slits of her cloak, resting on her lap.
"You're not used to these parts," he said, still standing on the hearthrug with his back to the fire, coatless, looking with curious directness at the woman. Her self-possession pleased him and inspired him, set him curiously free. It seemed to him almost brutal to feel so master of himself and of the situation.
Her eyes rested on him for a moment, questioning, as she thought of the meaning of his speech.
"No," she said, understanding. "No—it is strange."
"You find it middlin' rough?" he said.
Her eyes waited on him, so that he should say it again.
"Our ways are rough to you," he repeated.
"Yes—yes, I understand. Yes, it is different, it is strange. But I was in Yorkshire"
