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"No, Cynthia is a protegee of my mother's, the daughter of an old
schoolfellow of hers, who married a rascally solicitor. He came a cropper,
and the girl was left an orphan and penniless. My mother came to the
rescue, and Cynthia has been with us nearly two years now. She works in
the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster, seven miles away."
As he spoke the last words, we drew up in front of the fine old house. A lady
in a stout tweed skirt, who was bending over a flower bed, straightened
herself at our approach.
"Hullo, Evie, here's our wounded hero! Mr. Hastings--Miss Howard."
Miss Howard shook hands with a hearty, almost painful, grip. I had an
impression of very blue eyes in a sunburnt face. She was a pleasant-looking
woman of about forty, with a deep voice, almost manly in its stentorian
tones, and had a large sensible square body, with feet to match--these last
encased in good thick boots. Her conversation, I soon found, was couched in
the telegraphic style.
"
Weeds grow like house afire. Can't keep even with 'em. Shall press you in.
Better be careful."
"
"
"
I'm sure I shall be only too delighted to make myself useful," I responded.
Don't say it. Never does. Wish you hadn't later."
You're a cynic, Evie," said John, laughing. "Where's tea to-day--inside or
out?"
"Out. Too fine a day to be cooped up in the house."
"Come on then, you've done enough gardening for to-day. 'The labourer is
worthy of his hire', you know. Come and be refreshed."
"
Well," said Miss Howard, drawing off her gardening gloves, "I'm inclined to
agree with you."
She led the way round the house to where tea was spread under the shade
of a large sycamore.
A figure rose from one of the basket chairs, and came a few steps to meet
us.
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