“Why, there’s my lunch going over the top like those beastly British Tommies,” she said, “Get back, love.”
Miss Mapp could not quite determine whether “love” was a sarcastic echo of “Treasure.” It seemed probable.
“Oh, what a dear little lobster,” she said. “Look at his sweet claws.”
“I shall do more than look at them soon,” said Irene, poking it into her basket again. “Come and have tiffin, qui-hi, I’ve got to look after myself to-day.”
“What has happened to your devoted Lucy?” asked Miss Mapp. Irene lived in a very queer way with one gigantic maid, who, but for her sex, might have been in the Guards.
“Ill. I suspect scarlet-fever,” said Irene. “Very infectious, isn’t it? I was up nursing her all last night.”
Miss Mapp recoiled. She did not share Major Flint’s robust views about microbes.
“But I hope, dear, you’ve thoroughly disinfected——”
“Oh, yes. Soap and water,” said Irene. “By the way, are you Poppiting this afternoon?”
“If I can squeeze it in,” said Miss Mapp.