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.
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." She wiped her weather-worn face with a green and yellow silk handkerchief.
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's oven must be mended first thing, and the kitchen roof.
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?"