"If there had been any people at Pardons it would never have
happened. He'd have been looked after. But what can you expect
from a parcel of London solicitors?"

Mrs. Cloke murmured something.

"No. I'm soaked from the knees down. If I hang about I shall get
chilled. A cup of tea, Mrs. 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.

"Yes, my lady!" Mrs. Cloke ran and returned swiftly.

"Our land marches with Pardons for a mile on the south," she
explained, waving the full cup, "but one has quite enough to do
with one's own people without poachin'. Still, if I'd known, I'd
have sent Dora, of course. Have you seen her this afternoon, Mrs.
Cloke? No? I wonder whether that girl did sprain her ankle. Thank
you." It was a formidable hunk of bread and bacon that Mrs. Cloke
presented. "As I was sayin', Pardons is a scandal! Lettin' people
die like dogs. There ought to be people there who do their duty.
You've done yours, though there wasn't the faintest call upon
you. Good night. Tell Dora, if she comes, I've gone on."

She strode away, munching her crust, and Sophie reeled breathless
into the parlour, to shake the shaking George.

"Why did you keep catching my eye behind the blind? Why didn't
you come out and do your duty?"