Roughbridge,
Lincolnshire.
They posted the letter together, before they parted.
It was two days later that Mrs. Purdoe Blewitt was seriously annoyed.
“Such impudence,” she said, bristling. “As if she were the daughter of the house. . . .”
The Reverend Purdoe Blewitt, Rector of Loughbridge, laid down his pen.
“What is the matter, my dear?”
His wife stabbed at the bell and flounced into a chair before replying.
“Jane, of course,” she snorted. “Fortunately, I met the postman, or I should never have known.” She tapped a letter with meaning. “She’s still doing it.”