“That beautiful throne-room!” exclaimed Miss Mapp. “A cup of tea, dear Mrs. Poppit? None of that naughty red-currant fool, I am afraid. And a little chocolate-cake?”
These substantial chocolate cakes soon did their fell work of producing the sense of surfeit, and presently Elizabeth’s guests dropped off gorged from the tea-table. Diva fortunately remembered their consistency in time, and nearly cleared a plate of jumbles instead, which the hostess had hoped would form a pleasant accompaniment to her dessert at her supper this evening, and was still crashingly engaged on them when the general drifting movement towards the two bridge-tables set in. Mrs. Poppit, with her glasses up, followed by Isabel, was employed in making a tour of the room, in case, as Miss Mapp had already determined, she never saw it again, examining the quality of the carpet, the curtains, the chair-backs with the air of a doubtful purchaser.
“And quite a quantity of books, I see,” she announced as she came opposite the fatal cupboard. “Look, Isabel, what a quantity of books. There is something strange about them, though; I do not believe they are real.”
She put out her hand and pulled at the back of one of the volumes of “Elegant Extracts.” The door swung open, and from behind it came a noise of rattling, bumping and clattering. Something soft and heavy thumped on to the floor, and a cloud of floury dust arose. A bottle of bovril embedded itself quietly there without damage, and a tin of Bath Oliver biscuits beat a fierce tattoo on one of corned beef. Innumerable dried apricots from the burst package flew about like shrapnel, and tapped at the tins. A jar of prunes, breaking its fall on the flour, rolled merrily out into the middle of the floor.
The din was succeeded by complete silence. The Padre had said “What ho, i’ fegs?” during the tumult, but his voice had been drowned by the rattling of the dried apricots. The Member of the Order of the British Empire stepped free of the provisions that bumped round her, and examined them through her glasses. Diva crammed the last jumble into her mouth and disposed of it with the utmost rapidity. The birthday of her life had come, as Miss Rossetti said.
“Dear Elizabeth!” she exclaimed. “What a disaster! All your little stores in case of the coal strike. Let me help to pick them up. I do not think anything is broken. Isn’t that lucky?”
Evie hurried to the spot.
“Such a quantity of good things,” she said rapidly under her breath. “Tinned meats and bovril and prunes, and ever so many apricots. Let me pick them all up, and with a little dusting… Why, what a big cupboard, and such a quantity of good things.”
Miss Mapp had certainly struck a streak of embarrassments. What with naked Mr. Hopkins, and Janet’s frock and this unveiling of her hoard, life seemed at the moment really to consist of nothing else than beastly situations. How on earth that catch of the door had come undone, she had no idea, but much as she would have liked to suspect foul play from somebody, she was bound to conclude that Mrs. Poppit with her prying hands had accidentally pressed it. It was like Diva, of course, to break the silence with odious allusions to hoarding, and bitterly she wished that she had not started the topic the other day, but had been content to lay in her stores without so pointedly affirming that she was doing nothing of the kind. But this was no time for vain laments, and restraining a natural impulse to scratch and beat Mrs. Poppit, she exhibited an admirable inventiveness and composure. Though she knew it would deceive nobody, everybody had to pretend he was deceived.
“Oh, my poor little Christmas presents for your needy parishioners, Padre,” she said. “You’ve seen them before you were meant to, and you must forget all about them. And so little harm done, just an apricot or two. Withers will pick them all up, so let us get to our bridge.”