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Pentrewer.
    â€œIs Pentrewer a farm?” 
    Mr. Howells exchanged a bright, humorous glance with Mrs. Howells.
    â€œYou could call it a farm, I reckon, if you could see the land for bracken,” he opined. “Them’ve got a bit of hill land there and a few ship. But them turns a hand to anything for a living, mostly.”
    The contemplation of Mr. and Mrs. Davis and their manner of livelihood seemed to cause Mr. Howells some secret amusement, as though he knew more about them than it would be neighbourly to say.
    â€œSidney Brentwood went over to see them one day, or so Mrs. Davis told me.”
    â€œBoys get in all kinds of company,” said Mrs. Howells apologetically. “You can’t stop them going where they likes. I wasn’t too pleased when I heard as Sidney had stopped to tea along of Davis Pentrewer. But young people has to learn there’s all sorts of folk in the world, hasn’t they, and we can’t keep them all the time tied to the right sort. I asked him not to go there again.”
    Kate, puzzled by this social ostracism, protested:
    â€œI thought Mr. and Mrs. Davis seemed rather nice people.”
    â€œWell—I’m not saying they isn’t, but—” Mrs. Howells looked at her husband, who helped her out.
    â€œReckon they’ve got too much gipsy blood in them for us kind of folk to take to, Missie. They be harmless folk in their way, I expect. But over Pentrewer way people mostly isn’t as particular as us Hastry people. A tidy lot of them be a roughish sort, I reckon.”
    â€œI see,” said Kate, still a little puzzled. Those who lived Pentrewer way, she must take it, then, including her kind Samaritans, were a lesser breed dwelling without the pale of civilised Hastry life. She was about to pigeon-hole the information under the heading of Distinctions (Social) when Mr. Howells added:
    â€œThey isn’t as particular what they turns a hand to as us is, you sees, Miss. Not particular enough, us thinks.”
    He seemed disinclined to say more on the subject, and Kate docketed his remarks temporarily under the label of Prejudice (Moral).
    What she wondered, did Hastry village think of Gideon Atkins, whom even the Davises appeared to despise? But Gideon Atkins, it appeared when she mentioned his name, was a farmer in a biggish way, a warm man, and although Mr. Howells readily admitted that he was not popular in the district, he seemed to entertain a certain respect for him. 
    â€œHe be a bit close-fisted, Missie, that’s how it be, and not only that, but he ben’t a friendly man. He be not long from Yorkshire, and it do seem as if farmers round here can’t get on with him and doesn’t want to. But he be a goodish farmer, I reckon. People here is inclined to be jealous of strangers, unless they makes theirselves agreeable. Now, there’s strangers at the Veault hasn’t been there above six months and is more liked than Gideon Atkins after two years! But then they be free with their talk and their money, and he be tight with both, and that’s the difference, I reckon!”
    â€œThe Veault!” exclaimed Kate. “I travelled in the train from Llanfyn with a children’s nurse who said she was going to the Veault!”
    â€œAh, it’s to be a home for London children, that’s what they say. George Hufton the builder is working there, putting in plumbing enough for a hotel and baths I don’t know how many!”
    Mrs. Howells reckoned in an aside that they’d be needed, if the London children were like some that had come to Hastry village!
    â€œThey say it’s an American lady is doing it,” continued Mr. Howells. “Her and her niece. There’s to be room for forty children there, they says, with five nurses to them. Well the Veault’s a big old rambling place, but ’twill be a puzzle to fit them in, I reckon! When you go to see your friend at Llanhalo, you