She busied herself with her papers, and made some corrections with the fountain pen.

When their pipes were about half smoked, the men rose, whetted their scythes for the third time, and mowed again.

Miss King stopped writing and watched them.

The day grew hotter, and the spells of mowing became shorter.
Miss King gave up the attempt to write, and lay dreamily gazing at the men, roused to active consciousness now and then by the rasp of the hones against the scythe blades.

At one o'clock the men, guessing it to be dinnertime, stopped pretending to work and went away.