‘I haven’t yet met Mrs Baines. Sydney seems a very nice boy.’ That was all Miss Mayfield could think of to say. She realized that she was now catching a glimpse of the other, less pleasant side of village life – the little squabbles, the petty snobberies. She was almost sorry that she had put herself into a position where she must be even slightly involved; and she was as much in the dark as ever as to the truth of the situation. One thing was clear: Sydney was concerned about Ethel, and Ethel about Sydney, and they, at least, seemed sincere.

Mrs Rigby, cutting the cherry cake, said with the exquisite tact often found in simple people:

‘But, there, Miss, you don’t want to hear about our silly little differences. All you should bear in mind is that anything Emily Baines says about me – and anything I say about her, for that matter – is spite talking. We never hit it off; but that don’t stop Ethel and Sydney being very fond of each other.’

Ethel said with startling vehemence:

‘I am not fond of Sydney, Gran. I’ve told you that a thousand times. He’s a help to me getting the rabbit grub – food – and thass all. Anybody else that’d come and pull cow parsley and drag it home for me I’d be just as thankful to.’

‘So you say. I know better.’

‘Then you know wrong.’

Now, this, thought Miss Mayfield, is surely very curious. She had a feeling that it might also be significant – if only she had a clue as to the meaning of Ethel’s denial of interest in Sydney.

Mrs Rigby’s years in good service had not only improved her grammar, and modified her accent, it had given her some social grace. Now, in her capacity as hostess, she asked all the correct little questions. How did Miss Mayfield like Walwyk? Did she find country children slow compared with those in towns? Did she mind living alone?

Ethel placidly ate her cake, picking out all the cherries and laying them aside to eat at the last – a simple, childish action somehow Miss Mayfield found very reassuring. When at last, having learned nothing, she rose and began to take her leave, Ethel said:

‘Please, Miss . . . don’t go and tell on me, being so clumsy. Juliet Reeve’d go and call me a self-operating mangle or something.’

‘Oh, I’m only supposed to know what Audrey Head told me,’ Miss Mayfield said.

Mrs Rigby laughed.

‘You don’t know Walwyk, Miss. Everybody in the village’ll know by this time that you came to see Ethel; and very nice they’ll think it too – as I do. Thank you for the cake, too.’