"Whereabouts in Connecticut?" asked George over her shoulder.

"Veering Holler was the name. I was there six year with my
uncle."

"How small the world is!" Sophie cried. "Why, all my mother's
people come from Veering Hollow. There must be some there
still--the Lashmars. Did you ever hear of them?"

"I remember hearing that name, seems to me," he answered, but his
face was blank as the back of a spade.

A little before dusk a woman in grey, striding like a
foot-soldier, and bearing on her arm a long pole, crashed through
the orchard calling for food. George, upon whom the unannounced
English worked mysteriously, fled to the parlour; but Mrs. Cloke
came forward beaming. Sophie could not escape.

"We've only just heard of it;" said the stranger, turning on her.
"I've been out with the otter-hounds all day. It was a splendidly
sportin' thing "

"Did you--er--kill?" said Sophie. She knew from books she could
not go far wrong here.

"Yes, a dry bitch--seventeen pounds," was the answer. "A
splendidly sportin' thing of you to do. Poor old Iggulden--"

"Oh--that!" said Sophie, enlightened.