As to Mavis, she had another baby--a boy this time--and she was an
infinitely proud mother as well as a very busy woman. She kept cows,
poultry and bees; could and did distil a remarkably choice sloe gin,
had achieved some reputation for her early peas and late lettuces, and
had made the quadrangle in front of the house a sight that even
tourists from London talked about. It blazed with color from May to
November, and there was one of the Rodhaven drivers who on several
occasions stopped his char-a-bancs to let the passengers have a long
look at it. Wandering artists, too, fascinated by the stone walls, the
flowers, the white paint, and the green shutters, would sometimes ring
the bell and ask if Mrs. Dale let lodgings.
Mrs. Dale was rather crushing to masculine intruders of this sort,
especially when they adopted an off-handedly gallant air.
In answering their questions she drawled slightly, and smiled in a
manner that, although not contemptuous, might permit them to guess
that they had made a tactless mistake.
"Oh, no, we do not let lodgings."
"Don't you really? I think you _ought_ to, you know."
"Possibly," said Mavis, drawling and smiling. "But Mr. Dale and I do
not think so. Of course if we did, we should put up a board, or
notice--and you may observe that there isn't one.
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