“Yes?” “You remember once, how we talked—at a gate on the Downs? We talked about how a girl might get an independent living. Her new husband was pleased to watch the astonished look on her face as tray after tray appeared on the grand table, each better than the next. I cannot answer that question. She had known that Remenham House would be deserted, for Martha—released, as she had carefully explained to her charge, by her vows to God from servitude and obedience to Nicholas Charvill, a mere mortal—had begun a correspondence with a friend of her youth, Mrs Joan Ibstock, née Pottiswick.
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