"Ah!" Carrington looked her up and down, "in that case I am glad Mr. Beatson and his car will be at hand to rescue you."
"I can fight my own battles," said Miss Tollart coolly. "But I see that you don't believe in Votes for Women."
"My dear lady," replied Carrington smoothly, "when I am in your presence I believe in anything you like to advance."
Sophy sniffed. "Hedging!" she observed aggressively. "Men never can give a straight answer. I only wish," she continued as she turned to Hendle, "that I could infect Dorinda with my ardor. But she won't uphold the banner, and sulks in her tent."
"I am afraid that I have exhausted all my persuasive power in inducing her to join me as my future wife," said the Squire politely.
Sophy nodded her approval. "Dorinda's a nice girl and a good girl, and a very pretty girl," she said, in her deep-toned voice, "but she is as weak as any man in this village. As weak as you are, Squire, as the vicar, as my father, and you know what he is." She winced again, then turned aggressively on Kit. "But I can't stay here all day, as the meeting at Elbowsham is waiting. Five miles, Kit; you must do it in five minutes."
"What about the police?" asked Carrington.
"I despise the police," cried Miss Tollart, as she was borne away hurriedly by her lover to prevent further trouble. "They know me."
Carrington looked leisurely after the machine until it vanished and Sophy's trumpet tones of defiance died away. "What an uncomfortable young woman," he observed, turning toward his friend.
"Oh, Sophy's a good sort," said Hendle soberly. "She's had heaps of trouble."
"It doesn't seem to have knocked much sense into her, anyway. Trouble. Bother, I see. Her father, I expect?"
The Squire looked astonished. "Yes. But how you guessed----"
"I saw her wince when you and she mentioned Dr. Tollart," explained the barrister.
They crossed the green, passing an ancient cross of worn stone, which stood in the center of a vast expanse of grass burnt brown with the long-enduring heat. Round the square were various cottages with white-washed walls and thatched roofs, each standing in its own tiny garden brilliant with flowers. _The Hendle Inn_, with the arms of the family swinging from a signpost, was the largest building in sight, and presented an attractive sight to an artist, since it dated from Tudor times, and its upper story overhung the lower. With its red-tiled roof and dark oaken beams deeply embedded in its flint and stone walls it caught the eye of Carrington straightway. He had seen it before, but its quaint beauty lured him again to contemplation.