"Can you give me a pound of butter?" she asked, in a curious
detached way of one speaking a foreign language.
He tried to attend to her question. She was looking at him
questioningly. But underneath the question, what was there, in
her very standing motionless, which affected him?
He stepped aside and she at once entered the house, as if the
door had been opened to admit her. That startled him. It was the
custom for everybody to wait on the doorstep till asked inside.
He went into the kitchen and she followed.
His tea-things were spread on the scrubbed deal table, a big
fire was burning, a dog rose from the hearth and went to her.
She stood motionless just inside the kitchen.
"Tilly," he called loudly, "have we got any butter?"
The stranger stood there like a silence in her black
cloak.
"Eh?" came the shrill cry from the distance.
He shouted his question again.
"We've got what's on t' table," answered Tilly's shrill voice
out of the dairy.
Brangwen looked at the table. There was a large pat of butter
on a plate, almost a pound. It was round, and stamped with
acorns and oak-leaves.
"Can't you come when you're wanted?" he shouted.
"Why, what d'you want?" Tilly protested, as she came peeking
inquisitively through the other door.
She saw the strange woman, stared at her with cross-eyes, but
said nothing.
"Haven't we any butter?" asked Brangwen again,
impatiently, as if he could command some by his question.
"I tell you there's what's on t' table," said Tilly,
impatient that she was unable to create any to his demand. "We
haven't a morsel besides."
There was a moment's silence.
The stranger spoke, in her curiously distinct, detached
manner of one who must think her speech first.
"Oh, then thank you very much. I am sorry that I have come to
trouble you."
She could not understand the entire lack of manners, was
slightly puzzled. Any politeness would have made the situation
quite impersonal. But here it was a case of wills in confusion.
Brangwen flushed at her polite speech. Still he did not let her
go.
"Get summat an' wrap that up for her," he said to
Tilly, looking at the butter on the table.
And taking a clean knife, he cut off that side of the butter
where it was touched.
His speech, the "for her", penetrated slowly into the foreign
woman and angered Tilly.
"Vicar has his butter fra Brown's by rights," said the
insuppressible servant-woman. "We s'll be churnin' to-morrow
mornin' first thing."