“Yes, but why have you got on your best stars and stripes this afternoon?” the baggy doctor loudly demanded of them. He was evidently a person who said what he liked to every one. They turned away from him, disdaining to answer; but I knew why they were so glorious.
Miss Cleeve made haste to walk off with Colonel Blow to the end of the court, where there was a rustic seat evidently belonging to John Dewar and his sons, for their names were printed everywhere in black letters over the packing-case wood of which it was composed.
Mrs Skeffington-Smythe who had halted the blue-eyed man was reproaching him plaintively because he had not been to call on her since his return.
“But I haven’t had a minute since I got back,” he protested.
“You’ve had time to call on Mrs Valetta. Why couldn’t you have found a moment to come and see Anna and me?”
Mrs Valetta turned and bit at her:
“Kim and I have known each other for many years,—
“Old friends are best—
Old loves, old books, old songs.”
She broke off the quotation at that, smiling a little acrid smile. These things did not interest me in the least. I merely felt that I detested Mrs Valetta and Mrs Skeffington-Smythe, and most of all the detestable man they were squabbling so crudely about. Mrs Valetta had returned to her business of introducing to me a large queue of freshly arrived men. She presented each with a brief biographical note, regardless of the protests of the victim.
“This is our disreputable postmaster, Mr Mark Bleksley. Plays the banjo divinely, but steals our letters.”