his simulacrum of gentility--boosted up by his
father's title and a few dead rites, such as the late dinner which had
impressed her so much. The only real difference between the Goddens and
the Trevors was that the former knew their job and the latter didn't.

All this thinking did not make either for much talk or much appetite,
and Joanna was disappointed. She let fall one or two remarks on farming
and outside matters, thinking that perhaps the conversation was too
homely and intimate for him, but he responded only languidly.

"A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Trevor," said Ellen pertly.

"You eat your pudding," said Joanna.

It occurred to her that perhaps Martin was disgusted by the homeliness
of the meal--after all, he was gentry, and it was unusual for gentry to
sit down to dinner with a crowd of farm-hands.... No doubt at home he
had wine-glasses, and a servant-girl to hand the dishes. She made a
resolution to ask him again and provide both these luxuries. To-day she
would take him into the parlour and make Ellen show off her
accomplishments, which would help put a varnish of gentility on the
general coarseness of the entertainment. She wished she had asked Mr.
Pratt--she had thought of doing so, but finally decided against it.

So when the company had done shovelling the Stilton cheese into their
mouths with their knives, she announced that she and Mr. Trevor would
have their cups of tea in the parlour, and told Milly to go quick and
light the fire.

Ellen was most satisfactorily equal to this part of the occasion. She
recited "Curfew shall not Ring Tonight," and played Haydn's "Gipsy
Rondo." Joanna began to feel complacent once more.

"I made up my mind she should go to a good school," she said when her
sister had run back to what festivities lingered in the kitchen, "and
really it's wonderful what they've taught her. She'll grow up to be a
lady."

It seemed to Martin that she stressed the last word rather wistfully,
and the next moment she added--

"There's not many of your sort on the Marsh."

"How do you mean--my sort?"

"Gentlefolk."

"Oh, we don't trouble to call ourselves gentlefolk. My father and I are
just plain farmers now."

"But you don't really belong to us--you're the like of the Savilles at
Dungemarsh Court, and the clergy families."

"Is that where you put us?--We'd find our lives jolly dull if we shut
ourselves up in that set. I can tell you that I've enjoyed myself far
more here