‘Probably,’ said Gerald.

Meanwhile Ursula was peeping under one of the cloths. There sat the canary in a corner, bunched and fluffed up for sleep.

‘How ridiculous!’ she cried. ‘It really thinks the night has come! How absurd! Really, how can one have any respect for a creature that is so easily taken in!’

‘Yes,’ sang Hermione, coming also to look. She put her hand on Ursula’s arm and chuckled a low laugh. ‘Yes, doesn’t he look comical?’ she chuckled. ‘Like a stupid husband.’

Then, with her hand still on Ursula’s arm, she drew her away, saying, in her mild sing–song:

‘How did you come here? We saw Gudrun too.’

‘I came to look at the pond,’ said Ursula, ‘and I found Mr Birkin there.’

‘Did you? This is quite a Brangwen land, isn’t it!’

‘I’m afraid I hoped so,’ said Ursula. ‘I ran here for refuge, when I saw you down the lake, just putting off.’

‘Did you! And now we’ve run you to earth.’

Hermione’s eyelids lifted with an uncanny movement, amused but overwrought. She had always her strange, rapt look, unnatural and irresponsible.

‘I was going on,’ said Ursula. ‘Mr Birkin wanted me to see the rooms. Isn’t it delightful delightful to live here? It is perfect.’

‘Yes,’ said Hermione, abstractedly. Then she turned right away from Ursula, ceased to know her existence.

‘How do you feel, Rupert?’ she sang in a new, affectionate tone, to Birkin.

‘Very well,’ he replied.

‘Were you quite comfortable?’ The curious, sinister, rapt look was on Hermione’s face, she shrugged her bosom in a convulsed movement, and seemed like one half in a trance.

‘Quite comfortable,’ he replied.

There was a long pause, whilst Hermione looked at him for a long time, from under her heavy, drugged eyelids.

‘And you think you’ll be happy here?’ she said at last.

‘I’m sure I shall.’

‘I’m sure I shall do anything for him as I can,’ said the labourer’s wife. ‘And I’m sure our master will; so I HOPE he’ll find himself comfortable.’

Hermione turned and looked at her slowly.

‘Thank you so much,’ she said, and then she turned completely away again. She recovered her position, and lifting her face towards him, and addressing him exclusively, she said:

‘Have you measured the rooms?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘I’ve been mending the punt.’

‘Shall we do it now?’ she said slowly, balanced and dispassionate.

‘Have you got a tape measure, Mrs Salmon?’ he said, turning to the woman.

‘Yes sir, I think I can find one,’ replied the woman, bustling immediately to a basket. ‘This is the only one I’ve got, if it will do.’

Hermione took it, though it was offered to him.

On the morning which followed his interview with the Mormon Prophet, John Ferrier went in to Salt Lake City, and having found his acquaintance, who was bound for the Nevada Mountains, he entrusted him with his message to Jefferson Hope. In it he told the young man of the imminent danger which threatened them, and how necessary it was that he should return. Having done thus he felt easier in his mind, and returned home with a lighter heart.

As he approached his farm, he was surprised to see a horse hitched to each of the posts of the gate. Still more surprised was he on the entering to find two young men in possession of his sitting-room. One, with a long pale face, was leaning back in the rocking-chair, with his feet cocked up upon the stove. The other, a bull-necked youth with coarse, bloated features, was standing in front of the window with his hands in his pockets whistling a popular hymn. Both of them nodded to Ferrier as he entered, and the one in the rocking-chair commenced the conversation.

“Maybe you don’t know us,” he said. “This here is the son of Elder Drebber, and I’m Joseph Stangerson, who travelled with you in the desert when the Lord stretched out His hand and gathered you into the true fold.”

“As He will all the nations in His own good time,” said the other in a nasal voice; “He grindeth slowly but exceeding small.”

John Ferrier bowed coldly. He had guessed who his visitors were.

“We have come,” continued Stangerson, “at the advice of our fathers to solicit the hand of your daughter for whichever of us may seem good to you and to her. As I have but four wives and Brother Drebber here has seven, it appears to me that my claim is the stronger one.”

“Nay, nay, Brother Stangerson,” cried the other; “the question is not how many wives we have, but how many we can keep. My father has now given over his mills to me, and I am the richer man.”

“But my prospects are better,” said the other, warmly. “When the Lord removes my father, I shall have his tanning yard and his leather factory. Then I am your elder, and am higher in the Church.”

“It will be for the maiden to decide,” rejoined young Drebber, smirking at his own reflection in the glass. “We will leave it all to her decision.”

During this dialogue John Ferrier had stood fuming in the doorway, hardly able to keep his riding-whip from the backs of his two visitors.

“Look here,” he said at last, striding up to them, “when my daughter summons you, you can come, but until then I don’t want to see your faces again.”

The two young Mormons stared at him in amazement. In their eyes this competition between them for the maiden’s hand was the highest of honours both to her and her father.

“There are two ways out of the room,” cried Ferrier; “there is the door, and there is the window. Which do you care to use?”

His brown face looked so savage, and his gaunt hands so threatening, that his visitors sprang to their feet and beat a hurried retreat. The old farmer followed them to the door.