The Ffolliots of Redmarley | Page 9

the fact at once that all her clothes were old,
shabby, and exceedingly well cut. Her hat was a shapeless soft felt with
no trimming, save a rather ragged cord, and she wore it turned down all
round. It had once been brown, but was now a mixture of soft faded
tints like certain lichens growing on a roof. Her covert coat, rather too
big, and quite nondescript in colour, washed by the rains of many
winters, revealed in flowing lines the dim grace of the broad, yet
slender shoulders beneath.
Her exceedingly short skirt was almost as weather-beaten as the coat,
but it swung evenly with every step and there was no sagging at the
back.
Last of all, his eyes dropped to her boots: wide welted, heavy brown
boots; regular country boots; but here again was the charm of graceful
line, and he knew instinctively that the feet they encased were slender

and shapely and unspoiled.
He raised his eyes again to the serenely unconscious profile presented
to his view: a very finished profile with nothing smudgy or uncertain
about it. The little nose was high-bridged and decided, the red lips full
and shut closely together, the upper short and deeply cleft in the centre.
He was just thinking that, in spite of his muddy hat, he would rather
like her to look at him again, when she turned her large gaze upon him
with the question:
"Were you preaching just before you fell down?"
He flushed hotly. "Certainly not--did it sound like . . . that?"
"Well, I wasn't sure. I thought if you were a curate trying a sermon
you'd have said 'brethren,' but 'fellow men' would do, you know; and
then I heard something about the 'house of the Lord,' and I was sure
you must be a sucking parson; but when I came up I wasn't so sure.
What were you saying over, if it wasn't a sermon?"
"It was stupid of me . . . but I do a good deal of public speaking, and I
never dreamt anyone was within miles . . ."
"Oh, a speech, was it? Where are you going to speak it?"
"I shall probably address a meeting in Marlehouse to-morrow night."
"Why?"
"Because I've been asked to do so."
"Will it be in the paper on Saturday?"
"Probably."
"How grand; do tell me your name, then I can look for your speech. I'd
love to read it and see if you begin with the bit I heard about fellow
men and the house of the Lord."

"The House of Lords," he corrected.
"Oh," said the girl. "Them! It's them you're against. I was afraid you
objected to churches."
"I don't care much for churches, either," he observed, gloomily. "Do
you?"
"I've really never thought about it," she confessed. "One's supposed to
like them . . . they're good things, surely?"
"Institutions must be judged by their actual utility; their adaptability to
present needs. Traditional benefits can no longer be accepted as a
reason for the support of any particular cause."
"I think," she said, "that the mud on your clothes is drying. It will
probably brush off quite nicely."
Had he ever read Alice in Wonderland he might have remembered what
preceded the Caucus Race. But he never had, so he merely thought that
she was singularly frivolous and irrelevant.
"You haven't told me your name," she continued, "so that I can look for
that speech. We're nearly home, and I'll hand you over to Heaven so
that he can make you tidy for your call."
"My name is E. A. Gallup," he replied, shortly.
"Up or op?" she asked.
"Up," he replied, wishing to heaven it weren't.
"Mine's M. B. Ffolliot, two 'fs' and two 'ls'. We live here, you know."
"I guessed you were a Miss Ffolliot. In fact, I may say I knew it."
"Everyone knows us about here," she said sadly. "That's the worst of it.
You can never get out of anything you've done."

E. A. Gallup looked surprised, but as she was again gazing into space
she did not observe him.
"Whenever hay's trampled, or pheasants startled, or gates left open, or
pigs chased, or turkeys furious, they always say, 'It's them varmints of
young Ffolliots.'"
"Do you know," he said, and his grave face suddenly broke into a most
boyish grin, "I believe even I have heard something of the kind."
"If you live anywhere within six miles of Redmarley you'll hear little
else, and it isn't always us . . . though it is generally. This stupid gate's
locked. We'll have to get over. It's easiest to do it like this."
"This" was to go back a few paces, run forward, put her hands on the
top and vault the gate as