Miss Fouracres was a woman of much
domestic ability; she knew how to get the maximum of comfort out of small
resources. But for her the inn would have been a wretched little place--as,
indeed, it was before her time. Miss Fouracres worked hard and prudently.
She had no help; the garden, the poultry, all the cares of house and inn
were looked after by her alone--except, indeed, a few tasks beyond her
physical strength, which were disdainfully performed by the landlord. A
pony and cart served chiefly to give Mr. Fouracres an airing when his life
of sedentary dignity grew burdensome. One afternoon, when he had driven to
the market town, his daughter and her guest were in the garden together,
gathering broad beans and gossiping with much contentment.
'I wish I could always live here!' exclaimed Mr. Ruddiman, after standing
for a moment with eyes fixed meditatively upon a very large pod which he
had just picked.
Miss Fouracres looked at him as if in surprise, her left hand clasping her
chin.
'Ah, you'd soon get tired of it, sir.'
'I shouldn't! No, I'm sure I shouldn't. I like this life. It suits me. I
like it a thousand times better than teaching in a school.'
'That's your fancy, sir.
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