Miss Mapp’s mercy was largely tempered with justice, and she proposed, in spite of the leniency which she would eventually exhibit, to give Puffin “what for,” first. She had not for him, as for Major Benjy, that feminine weakness which had made it a positive luxury to forgive him: she never even thought of Puffin as Captain Dicky, far less let the pretty endearment slip off her tongue accidentally, and the luxury which she anticipated from the interview was that of administering a quantity of hard slaps. She had appointed half-past twelve as the hour for his suffering, so that he must go without his golf again.
She put down the book she was reading when he appeared, and gazed at him stonily without speech. He limped into the middle of the room. This might be forgiveness, but it did not look like it, and he wondered whether she had got him here on false pretences.
“Good morning,” said he.
Miss Mapp inclined her head. Silence was gold.
“I understood from Major Flint——” began Puffin.
Speech could be gold too.
“If,” said Miss Mapp, “you have come to speak about Major Flint you have wasted your time. And mine!”
(How different from Major Benjy, she thought. What a shrimp!)
The shrimp gave a slight gasp. The thing had got to be done, and the sooner he was out of range of this powerful woman the better.