"This house is not a farmin' house," said Dixon slowly, surveying
the girl, as she sat on the packing-case swinging her feet, her
straw-coloured hair and pink cotton dress making a spot of pleasant
colour in the darkness as the lamp-light fell on them. "It's a house for
t' gentry."

"Well, then, t' gentry might clean it up an' put decent furnishin's into
't," said Thyrza defiantly. "Not a bit o' paperin' doon anywhere--juist
two three rooms colour-washed, as yo' med do 'em at t' workhouse. An'
that big hole in t' dinin'-room ceilin', juist as 'twas--and such shabby
sticks o' things upstairs an' down as I nivver see! I'll have a good
sight better when _I_ get married, I know!"

Contempt ran sharply through the girl's tone.

As she ceased speaking a step was heard in the corridor. Thyrza leapt to
the ground, Mrs. Dixon picked up her brush and duster, and Dixon resumed
his tending of the fire.

A man in a dripping overcoat and leggings pushed his way rapidly through
the cases, looking round him with an air of worried authority.

"I don't call that much of a fire, Dixon."

"I've been at it, sir, for near an hour."

"You've got some damp wood. What about the drawing-room?"

He threw open a door on the right. The others followed him in.