Grace experienced acute misery at the sight of these wood-cutting scenes, because she had estranged herself from them, craving, even to its defects and inconveniences, that homely sylvan life of her father which in the best probable succession of events would shortly be denied her.
At a little distance, on the edge of the clearing, Marty South was shaping spar-gads to take home for manufacture during the evenings.
While Winterborne and Mrs.Fitzpiers stood looking at her in their mutual embarrassment at each other's presence, they beheld approaching the girl a lady in a dark fur mantle and a black hat, having a white veil tied picturesquely round it.

She spoke to Marty, who turned and courtesied, and the lady fell into conversation with her.

It was Mrs.
Charmond.
On leaving her house, Mrs.Charmond had walked on and onward under the fret and fever of her mind with more vigor than she was accustomed to show in her normal moods--a fever which the solace of a cigarette did not entirely allay.

Reaching the coppice, she listlessly observed Marty at work, threw away her cigarette, and came near.

Chop, chop, chop, went Marty's little billhook with never more assiduity, till Mrs.
Charmond spoke.
"Who is that young lady I see talking to the woodman yonder ?" she asked.
"Mrs.Fitzpiers, ma'am," said Marty.
"Oh," said Mrs.Charmond, with something like a start; for she had not recognized Grace at that distance.