In spite of Figgis’s list, the Contessa’s shopping was soon over, and Miss Mapp having seen her as far as the corner, walked on, as if to her own house, in order to give her time to get to Mr. Wyse’s, and then fled back to the High Street. The suspense was unbearable: she had to know without delay when and where Diva and the Contessa had played bridge yesterday. Never had her eye so rapidly scanned the movement of passengers in that entrancing thoroughfare in order to pick Diva out, and learn from her precisely what had happened… There she was, coming out of the dyer’s with her basket completely filled by a bulky package, which it needed no ingenuity to identify as the late crimson-lake. She would have to be pleasant with Diva, for much as that perfidious woman might enjoy telling her where this furtive bridge-party had taken place, she might enjoy even more torturing her with uncertainty. Diva could, if put to it, give no answer whatever to a direct question, but, skilfully changing the subject, talk about something utterly different.
“The crimson-lake,” said Miss Mapp, pointing to the basket. “Hope it will turn out well, dear.”
There was rather a wicked light in Diva’s eyes.
“Not crimson-lake,” she said. “Jet-black.”
“Sweet of you to have it dyed again, dear Diva,” said Miss Mapp. “Not very expensive, I trust?”
“Send the bill in to you, if you like,” said Diva.
Miss Mapp laughed very pleasantly.
“That would be a good joke,” she said. “How nice it is that the dear Contessa takes so warmly to our Tilling ways. So amusing she was about the commissions Figgis had given her. But a wee bit satirical, do you think?”
This ought to put Diva in a good temper, for there was nothing she liked so much as a few little dabs at somebody else. (Diva was not very good-natured.)
“She is rather satirical,” said Diva.