“I don’t want to be quiet, thank you,” said Joanna.

She felt thankful that none of the few empty chairs was next Alce’s—­she could never abide his fussing.  She sat down between Cobb of Slinches and a farmer from Snargate way, and opened the conversation pleasantly on the subject of liver fluke in sheep.

When she had brought her meal to a close with a cup of tea, she found Alce waiting for her in the hotel entrance.

“I never thought you’d come to market, Joanna.”

“And why not, pray?”

The correct answer was—­“Because you don’t know enough about beasts,” but Alce had the sense to find a substitute.

“Because it ain’t safe or seemly for a woman to come alone and deal with men.”

“And why not, again?  Are all you men going to swindle me if you get the chance?”

Joanna’s laugh always had a disintegrating effect on Alce, with its loud warm tones and its revelation of her pretty teeth—­which were so white and even, except the small pointed canines.  When she laughed she opened her mouth wide and threw back her head on her short white neck.  Alce gropingly put out a hairy hand towards her, which was his nearest approach to a caress.  Joanna flicked it away.

“Now a-done do, Arthur Alce”—­dropping in her merriment into the lower idiom of the Marsh—­“a-done do with your croaking and your stroking both.  Let me go my own ways, for I know ’em better than you can.”

“But these chaps—­I don’t like it—­maybe, seeing you like this amongst them, they’ll get bold with you.”

“Not they!  How can you mention such a thing?  There was Mr. Cobb and Mr. Godfrey at dinner, talking to me as respectful as churchwardens, all about liver fluke and then by way of rot in the oats, passing on natural and civil to the Isle of Wight disease in potatoes—­if you see anything bold in that ... well then you’re an old woman as sure as I ain’t.”

A repetition of her laugh completed his disruption, and he found himself there on the steps of the Crown begging her to let him take over her market day discussions as her husband and deputy.

“Why should you go talking to farmers about Isle of Wight disease and liver fluke, when you might be talking to their wives about making puddings and stuffing mattresses and such-like women’s subjects.”

“I talk about them too,” said Joanna, “and I can’t see as I’d be any better for talking of nothing else.”

What Alce had meant to convey to her was that he would much rather hear her discussing the ailments of her children than of her potatoes, but he was far too delicate-minded to state this.  He only looked at her sadly.

Joanna had not even troubled to refuse his proposal—­any more than a mother troubles to give a definite and reasoned refusal to the child who asks for the moon.  Finding him silent, and feeling rather sorry for him, she suggested that he should come round with her to the shops and carry some of her parcels.