They put me up here as a favour to Dan Treffry; there’s an arrangement of L. s. d. with Mrs. Hopgood in the background.  They aren’t at all well off; this is the largest farm about, but it doesn’t bring them in much.  To look at John Ford, it seems incredible he should be short of money—­he’s too large.

We have family prayers at eight, then, breakfast—­after that freedom for writing or anything else till supper and evening prayers.  At midday one forages for oneself.  On Sundays, two miles to church twice, or you get into John Ford’s black books....  Dan Treffry himself is staying at Kingswear.  He says he’s made his pile; it suits him down here—­like a sleep after years of being too wide-awake; he had a rough time in New Zealand, until that mine made his fortune.  You’d hardly remember him; he reminds me of his uncle, old Nicholas Treffry; the same slow way of speaking, with a hesitation, and a trick of repeating your name with everything he says; left-handed too, and the same slow twinkle in his eyes.  He has a dark, short beard, and red-brown cheeks; is a little bald on the temples, and a bit grey, but hard as iron.  He rides over nearly every day, attended by a black spaniel with a wonderful nose and a horror of petticoats.  He has told me lots of good stories of John Ford in the early squatter’s times; his feats with horses live to this day; and he was through the Maori wars; as Dan says, “a man after Uncle Nic’s own heart.”

They are very good friends, and respect each other; Dan has a great admiration for the old man, but the attraction is Pasiance.  He talks very little when she’s in the room, but looks at her in a sidelong, wistful sort of way.  Pasiance’s conduct to him would be cruel in any one else, but in her, one takes it with a pinch of salt.  Dan goes off, but turns up again as quiet and dogged as you please.

Last night, for instance, we were sitting in the loggia after supper.  Pasiance was fingering the strings of her violin, and suddenly Dan (a bold thing for him) asked her to play.

“What!” she said, “before men?  No, thank you!”

“Why not?”

“Because I hate them.”

Down came John Ford’s hand on the wicker table:  “You forget yourself!  Go to bed!”

She gave Dan a look, and went; we could hear her playing in her bedroom; it sounded like a dance of spirits; and just when one thought she had finished, out it would break again like a burst of laughter.  Presently, John Ford begged our pardons ceremoniously, and stumped off indoors.  The violin ceased; we heard his voice growling at her; down he came again.  Just as he was settled in his chair there was a soft swish, and something dark came falling through the apple boughs.  The violin!  You should have seen his face!  Dan would have picked the violin up, but the old man stopped him.  Later, from my bedroom window, I saw John Ford come out and stand looking at the violin.  He raised his foot as if to stamp on it.  At last he picked it up, wiped it carefully, and took it in....