“I don’t get that—­once indoors and twice out, that’s three.”

“Well, anyways, whether it’s three or four or five, he’s asked her quite enough.  It’s time he had her now.”

“He won’t get her.  She’ll fly higher’n him now she’s got Ansdore.  She’ll be after young Edward Huxtable, or maybe Parson himself, him having neglected to keep himself married.”

“Ha!  Ha!  It ud be valiant to see her married to liddle Parson—­she’d forget herself and pick him up under her arm, same as she picks up her sister.  But anyways I don’t think she’ll get much by flying high.  It’s all fine enough to talk of her having Ansdore, but whosumdever wants Ansdore ull have to take Joanna Godden with it, and it isn’t every man who’d care to do that.”

“Surelye.  She’s a mare that’s never bin praeaperly broken in.  D’you remember the time she came prancing into church with a bustle stuck on behind, and everyone staring and fidgeting so as pore Mus’ Pratt lost his place in the Prayers and jumped all the way from the Belief to the Royal Family?”

“And that time as she hit Job Piper over the head wud a bunch of osiers just because he’d told her he knew more about thatching than she did.”

“Surelye, and knocked his hat off into the dyke, and then bought him a new one, with a lining to it.”

“And there was that time when—­”

Several more anecdotes to the point were contributed by the various patrons of the bar, before the conversation, having described a full circle, returned to its original starting point, and then set off again with its vitality apparently undiminished.  It was more than a week before the summons of Mr. Gain, of Botolph’s Bridge, for driving his gig without a light ousted Joanna from her central glory in the Woolpack’s discussions.

At Ansdore itself the interest naturally lasted longer.  Joanna’s dependents whether in yard or kitchen were resentfully engrossed in the new conditions.

“So Joanna’s going to run our farm for us, is she?” said the head man, old Stuppeny, “that’ll be valiant, wud some of the notions she has.  She’ll have our plaeace sold up in a twelve-month, surelye.  Well, well, it’s time maybe as I went elsewheres—­I’ve bin long enough at this job.”

Old Stuppeny had made this remark at intervals for the last sixty years, indeed ever since the day he had first come as a tow-headed boy to scare sparrows from the fields of Joanna’s grandfather; so no one gave it the attention that should have been its due.  Other people aired their grievances instead.

“I woean’t stand her meddling wud me and my sheep,” said Fuller, the shepherd.

“It’s her sheep, come to that,” said Martha Tilden the chicken-girl.

Fuller dealt her a consuming glance out of his eyes, which the long distances of the marsh had made keen as the sea wind.

“She doean’t know nothing about sheep, and I’ve been a looker after sheep since times when you and her was in your cradles, so I woean’t taeake sass from neither of you.”