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A couple of men came sauntering out of the stable and the kitchen maids stood a-titter.

Martin sputtered and stammered and grew redder than before, which she perceiving, bawled in a great voice that rang through the kitchen and far into the house, “Nell Entick, Nell Entick! Devil take the wench, is she deaf as an adder? Nell Entick, here ’s a ‘gentleman’ come to the kitchen door to see thee, his face as red as a reeky coal to kindle a pipe of tobacco with.”

A shrill chorus of women’s laughter came from the kitchen, echoed by a chorus of bass from the stable, and Phil Marsham stepped back in the dark, unwilling to be companioned with the man who had drawn such ridicule upon himself. But as Martin thrust himself forward with a show of bluster and bravado, the click of light footsteps came down the passage, and through the kitchen walked a girl whose flush of anger wondrously became her handsome face.

“Where is the wretch,” she cried, and stepping on the doorstone, stood face to face with Martin.

“So, ’t is thou,” she sneered. “I thought as much. Well—” she suddenly stopped, perceiving Phil, who stood nearly out of sight in the shadow. “Who is that?” she asked.

The mistress had returned to the kitchen, the girls to their work, the men to the stable.

“Th’ art the same wench,” Martin cried in anger, seizing at her hand. “Hard words for old acquaintance, and a warm glance for a strange face.”

She snatched her hand away and cuffed him on the ear with a force that sent him staggering.

Though he liked it little, he swallowed his wrath.