Then, after she had engaged him, he had shown just enough natural
capacity for her to blind herself with--his curious affinity with the
animals he tended had helped her to forget the many occasions on which
he had failed to rise above them in intelligence. It had been left to
another to point out to her that a man might be good with sheep simply
because he was no better than a sheep himself.

And now she was humbled--in her own eyes, and also in the eyes of her
neighbours. She would have to confess herself in the wrong. Everyone
knew that she had just raised Socknersh's wages, so there would be no
good pretending that she had known his shortcomings from the first, but
had put up with them as long as she could. Everyone would guess that
something had happened to make her change her mind about him ... there
would be some terrible talk at the Woolpack.

And there was Socknersh himself, poor fellow--the martyr of her
impulses. She thrust her face deep into the pillow when she thought of
him. She had given him as sharp a blow as his thick hide would ever let
him suffer. She would never forget that last look on his face....

Then she began wondering why this should have come upon her. Why should
she have made a fool of herself over Socknersh, when she had borne
unmoved the courtship of Arthur Alce for seven years? Was it just
because Alce had red whiskers and red hands and red hair on his hands,
while Socknersh was dark and sweet of face and limb? It was terrible to
think that mere youth and comeliness and virility should blind her
judgment and strip her of common sense. Yet this was obviously the
lesson she must learn from to-day's disgrace.