Claire turned and discovered Miss Munch's cousin sitting beside her, intent on the inevitable tatting.
"Oh, Mrs. Richards, how stupid of me! Have you been here long?"
"About ten minutes. But I get so interested in my work I never have eyes for anything else. How do you put in the time? A trip like this is so tiresome!"
Claire delved into her bag and brought out knitting-needles and an unfinished sock.
"I'm trying a hand at this," she admitted, holding her handiwork up ruefully. "But I'm afraid I'm not very skilful."
Mrs. Richards inspected the sock with critical disapproval.
"Oh, well," she encouraged, "you'll learn ... practice makes perfect. I've just finished a half-dozen pairs. I suppose I'm laying myself out for a roast doing tatting in public these war days! But it's restful and I'm not one to pretend. As long as my conscience is clear I can afford to be perfectly independent.... You don't make this trip every night, do you?"
"Oh my, no! I'm going over to Mr. Flint's to take some dictation. He's home sick."
"I saw Mrs. Flint and the children coming off the boat just as I got on." Mrs. Richards's voice took on a tone of casual directness.
"You know Mrs. Flint?"