As I put the tray down Ma continued pointedly. “You asked if Sybylla resembled me. I should not like to think so. She has given me a lot of vexation. I have had two mothers here bullying me because I have not restrained her from driving their sons mad. Men are foolish to think they can make any impression on her.”

I felt myself reddening right through to my heels. Why will Ma hurt me so that I cannot sleep? She might have given me a chance with Mr. Beauchamp. I was being most circumspect. An older man like that, what would he think? I could not go to the Show with him after this.

I made faces at Ma and tried to stop her, and I think Mr. Beauchamp caught me, he was much amused, and led Ma on to say more.

“So Sybylla is a bit wild, is she? You must have spoilt her.”

“She has spoilt herself. Men can’t see that they might as well try to catch the wind or that old hawk out there, but they giggle-gaggle around her and overlook the nice quiet girls who would make men happy.”

That was not fair of Ma. When I tried to escape Old Grayling, she said I was inhospitable. I treated everyone alike and they all admitted that I was friendly and full of fun.

I was so ashamed that I could not look Mr. Beauchamp in the eyes. I placed the lamp at his end of the table with a vase of flowers between me and him but he peeped around it and said I was getting lost so far away.

I disappeared to the kitchen for the evening to finish the ironing and to set bread. Ma was in the dining-roorn writing letters to send by the men in the morning. Mr. Blackshaw came over and he and Pa and Mr. Beauchamp were in the drawing-room or “front room” as the company room is called around ’Possum Gully.

Eusty had gone to bed and I had started on the ironing when Mr. Beauchamp stood laughing at me from the doorway. I asked him if he wanted anything and he said, yes, a talk with me.

“I haven’t time to talk,” I said, fearing that Ma would blame me if she came out and found him there.

“Aren’t you going to ask me to sit down?”

“I beg your pardon,” I said, setting a stool before the fire. “I thought Pa would be wanting to talk to you.”

I blithered away at the ironing. He placed the stool right before me.

“So you are a trouble to the lads of the district,” he said with a chuckle and a soft pedal in his voice. “And your mother does not advertise you as a little dove.”

I thumped like everything so that I couldn’t hear him, but he cupped his hands like coo-eeing. I was afraid that I’d laugh, so saying that I had forgotten the bread, I dashed away and collected the tub, the yeast, the flour and potatoes and began setting the sponge.