it to him.

"There--that'll save you tramping any further."

She had written the cheque for the whole amount.

Mr. Pratt could not speak. He opened and shut his mouth like a fish.
Then suddenly he began to gabble, he poured out thanks and assurances
and deprecations in a stammering torrent. His gratitude overwhelmed
Joanna, disgusted her. She lost her feeling of warmth and
compassion--after all, what should she pity him for now that he had got
what he wanted, and much more easily than he deserved?

"That's all right, Mr. Pratt. I'm sorry I can't wait any longer now. I'm
making jam."

She forgot his dusty boots and weary legs that had scarcely had time to
rest, she forgot that she had meant to offer him a cup of tea.

"Good afternoon," she said, as he rose, with apologies for keeping her.

She went with him to the door, snatched his hat off the peg and gave it
to him, then crashed the door behind him, her cheeks burning with a
queer kind of shame.




§3