. . . but I'll come again, Miss.' His teeth did not chatter much more than the door latch.
'I think not,' she answered levelly. 'The new-shed—m'm. What did my agent write you on the 15th?'
'I—fancied p'raps that if I came to see you—ma—man to man like, Miss. But———'
His eyes rolled into every corner of the room wide with horror. He half opened the door through which he had entered, but I noticed it shut again—from without and firmly.
'He wrote what I told him,' she went on. 'You are overstocked already. Dunnett's Farm never carried more than fifty bullocks—even in Mr. Wright's time. And he used cake. You've sixty-seven and you don't cake. You've broken the lease in that respect. You're dragging the heart out of the farm.'
'I'm—I'm getting some minerals—superphosphates—next week. I've as good as ordered a truck-load already. I'll go down to the station to-morrow about 'em. Then I can come and see you man to man like, Miss, in the daylight. . . . That gentleman's not going away, is he?' He almost shrieked.
I had only slid the chair a little farther back, reaching behind me to tap on the leather of the screen, but he jumped like a rat.
'No. Please attend to me, Mr. Turpin.' She turned in her chair and faced him with his back to the door. It was an old and sordid little piece of scheming that she forced from him—his plea for the new cow-shed at his landlady's expense, that
