the city, was home for a few days that October. It was to him his father
said:

"I can't help admiring that girl Joanna Godden for her pluck. Old Godden
died suddenly two weeks ago, and now she's given out that she'll run the
farm herself, instead of putting in a bailiff. Of course the neighbours
disapprove, they've got very strict notions round here as to woman's
sphere and all that sort of thing."

"Godden? Which farm's that?"

"Little Ansdore--just across the Ditch, in Pedlinge parish. It's a big
place, and I like her for taking it on."

"And for any other reason?"

"Lord, no! She isn't at all the sort of woman I admire--a great big
strapping wench, the kind this marsh breeds twelve to the acre, like the
sheep. Has it ever struck you, Martin, that the women on Romney Marsh,
in comparison with the women one's used to and likes, are the same as
the Kent sheep in comparison with Southdowns--admirably hardy and suited
to the district and all that, but a bit tough and coarse-flavoured?"

"I see that farming has already enlarged and refined your stock of
similes. I hope you aren't getting tired of it."

"No, not exactly. I'm interested in the place now I manage it without
that dolt Lambarde, and Hythe isn't too far for the phaeton if I want
to See Life. Besides, I haven't quite got over the thrill of not being
in debt and disgrace"--he threw Martin a glance which might have come