The parlour, brick-floored, with bare table and shiny chairs and sofa stuffed with horsehair, seemed never to have been used, it was so terribly clean. Ashurst sat down at once on the sofa, holding his lame knee between his hands, and Mrs. Narracombe gazed at him. He was the only son of a late professor of chemistry, but people found a certain lordliness in one who was often so sublimely unconscious of them.
"Is there a stream where we could bathe?"
"There's the strame at the bottom of the orchard, but sittin' down you'll not be covered!"
"Well, 'tis about a foot and a half, maybe."
"Oh! That'll do fine. Which way?"
"Down the lane, through the second gate on the right, an' the pool's by the big apple tree that stands by itself. There's trout there, if you can tickle them."
"They're more likely to tickle us!"
Mrs. Narracombe smiled. "There'll be the tea ready when you come back."