They were to go to Rockett's--the farm of one Cloke, in the southern counties--where, she assured them, they would meet the genuine England of folklore and song.
Cloke, at the open door of a deep stone-floored kitchen, made them shyly welcome.
It was a tale told serially by Cloke in the barn, or his wife in the dairy, the last chapters reserved for the kitchen o' nights by the big fire, when the two had been half the day exploring about the house, where old Iggulden, of the blue smock, cackled and chuckled to see them.
Cloke would answer, smoothing her knees, "For the sake of the place.
Here to-day an' gone to-morrow," said Cloke warningly.
Cloke says all the farms here could be made to pay.
Cloke, who had heard the news by farm-telegraphy, which is older but swifter than Marconi's.
Cloke, and I can eat one of your sandwiches as I go.
Cloke, shocked at their levity, told them that it was Lady Conant, wife of Sir Walter Conant, Baronet, a large landholder in the neighbourhood; and if not God; at least His visible Providence.
Cloke gasped, when she was told the news by the kitchen fire.
We couldn't 'elp noticing," said Cloke slowly, "from the times you walked there, that you an' your lady was drawn to it, but--but I don't know as we ever precisely thought--" His wife's glance checked him.
Perhaps," said Cloke, rubbing his knees, "just for the sake of saying something, perhaps you'll park it?