“Shall you be in to-morrow morning, auntie?” Maggie asked, in the constrained silence that followed Mrs Hamps’s protestations.
“Yes, I shall,” said Mrs Hamps, with assurance. “I shall be mending curtains.”
“Well, then, I shall call. About eleven.” Maggie turned to Edwin benevolently. “It won’t be too soon if I pop in at the shop a little before eleven?”
“No,” said Edwin with equal benevolence. “It’s not often Sutton’s delivery is after ten. That’ll be all right. I’ll have it unpacked.”
Six.
He lit a cigarette.
“Have one?” he suggested to Mrs Hamps, holding out the case.
“I shall give you a rap over the knuckles in a minute,” smiled Mrs Hamps, who was now leaning an elbow on the table in easy intimacy. And she went on in a peculiar tone, low, mysterious, and yet full of vivacity: “I can’t quite make out who that little nephew is that Janet Orgreave is taking about.”
“Little nephew that Janet’s taking about!” murmured Maggie, in surprise; and to Edwin, “Do you know?”