Betty joined in the laughter. "Are there many of—of Us up here?" she asked.
"There are as many as the village will hold, and every farm and byre and cow-shed for about six miles round," replied Mrs. Gascoigne, the new-comer. "And, of course, the little town, about four miles from here, near where the ships anchor, simply couldn't hold another wife if you tried to lever one in with a shoe-horn!"
"And then," continued their hostess, measuring out the tea into the pot, "of course, there are some selfish brutes who stay on all the time—I'm one of them," she added pathetically. "But it's no use being a hypocrite about it. I'd stay on if they all put me in Coventry and I had to pawn my wedding ring to pay for my rooms. One feels nearer, somehow…. Do sit down all of you. There's nothing to eat except scones and jam, but the tea is nice and hot, and considering I bought it at that little shop near the manse, it looks and smells very like real tea."
"I suppose, then, all the rooms are dreadfully expensive," said Betty.
"Expensive!" echoed the fair girl, consuming her buttered scone with frank enjoyment. "You could live at the Ritz or Waldorf a good deal cheaper than in some of these crofter's cottages. You see, until the War began they never let anything in their lives. No one ever wanted to come and live here. Of course, there are nice women—like your Miss McCallum, for example—who won't take advantage of the enormous demand, and stick to reasonable prices. More honour to them! But if you could see some of the hovels for which they are demanding six and seven guineas a week—and, what's more, getting it…."
"I'm afraid we are giving Mrs. Standish an altogether rather gloomy picture of the place," said Mrs. Gascoigne. She turned to Betty with a reassuring smile. "You don't have to pay anything to be out of doors," she said. "That much is free, even here; it's perfectly delightful country, and when the weather improves a bit we have picnics and walks and even do a little fishing in an amateurish sort of way. It all helps to pass the time…."
"But it's not only the prices that turn one's hair grey up here," continued Mrs. Cavendish. "That little Mrs. Thatcher—her husband is in a Destroyer or something—told me that her landlady has false teeth…." The speaker extended a slender forefinger, to which she imparted a little wriggling motion. "They wobble … like that—when she talks. She always talks when she brings in meals…. I suppose it's funny, really——" She lapsed into her liquid giggle. "But poor Mrs. Thatcher nearly cried when she told me about it. Imagine! Week in, week out. Every meal…. and trying not to look…! She said it made her want to scream."
"I should certainly scream," said Mrs. Gascoigne, who had finished her tea and was preparing to take her departure. "Now I must be off. I've promised to go and sit with Mrs. Daubney. She's laid up, poor thing, and it's so dull for her all alone in those stuffy rooms." She held out her hand to Betty. "I hope we shall see a lot more of each other," she said prettily. "We're going to show you some of the walks round here, and we'll take our tea out to the woods…. I hope you'll be happy up here."
The door closed behind her, and Eileen Cavendish explored the room in search of cigarettes. "Sybil Gascoigne is a dear," she observed.
"On the little table, there," said the hostess. "In that box. Do you smoke, Mrs. Standish?" Mrs. Standish, it appeared, did not. "Throw me one, Eileen." She caught and lit it with an almost masculine neatness. "Yes," she continued, "she's perfectly sweet. Her husband is a senior Post-captain, and there isn't an atom of 'side' or snobbishness in her composition. She is just as sweet to that hopelessly dull and dreary Daubney woman as she is to—well, to charming and well-bred attractions like ourselves!" The speaker laughingly blew a cloud of smoke and turned to Betty. "In a sense, this war has done us good. You've never lived in a Dockyard Port, though. You don't know the insane snobberies and the ludicrous little castes that flourished in pre-war days."