“I never said anything about Mrs. Brooks’ nightgown,” said Henry, who, to do him justice, had been goaded into slightly Rabelaisian mood: “I never thought about Mrs. Brooks’ nightgown. I didn’t know she wore one—I mean——”
Mrs. Altham made what children would call “a face.” Her eyes grew suddenly fixed and boiled, and her mouth assumed an acidulated expression as if with a plethora of lemon-juice. The “face” was due to the entry of the parlour-maid with the pudding. It was jelly, and was served in silence. Mrs. Altham waited till the door was quietly closed again.
“It is not a question of Mrs. Brooks’ nightgown,” she said, “since we both agree that she would not order six yards of Suffragette riband to trim it. I spoke sarcastically, Henry, and you interpreted me literally, as you often do. It was the same at Littlestone in August, when the bacon was so salt one day that I said to Mrs. Churchill that a little bacon in the bath would be equivalent to sea-bathing. Upon which you must needs tell her next morning to send your bacon to the bath-room, which she did, and there was a plate of bacon on the sponge-tray, so extraordinary. But all that is beside the point, though what she can have thought of you I can’t imagine. After all, your gift of being literal may help you now. Why does Mrs. Brooks want six yards of Suffragette riband, and why are there two similar parcels on Tapworth’s counter? If I had had a moment alone I would certainly have looked at the other addresses, and seen where they were being sent. But young Tapworth was there all the time—that one with the pince-nez, and the ridiculous chin—and he put them into the errand-boy’s basket, and told him to be sharp about it. So I had no chance of seeing.”
“You might have strolled along behind the boy to see where he went,” suggested Mr. Altham.
“He went on a bicycle,” said Mrs. Altham, “and it is impossible to stroll behind a boy on a bicycle and hope to get there in time. But he went up the High Street. I should not in the least wonder if Mrs. Evans had turned Suffragette, after that note to me about her not having time to attend the anti-Suffragette meetings.”
“Especially since there was only one,” said Henry, in the literal mood that had been forced on him, “and nobody came to that. It would not have sacrificed very much of her time. Not that I ever heard it was valuable.”
“What she can do with her day I can’t imagine,” said Mrs. Altham, her mind completely diverted by this new topic. “Her cook told Griffiths that as often as not she doesn’t go down to the kitchen at all in the morning, and she’s hardly ever to be seen shopping in the High Street before lunch, and what with Elsie gone to Dresden, and her husband away on his rounds all day, she must be glad when it’s bedtime. And she’s a small sleeper, too, for she told me herself that she considers six hours a good night, though I expect she sleeps more than she knows, and I daresay has a nap after lunch as well. Dear me, what were we talking about? Ah, yes, I was saying I should not wonder if she had turned Suffragette, though I can’t recall what made me think so.”
“Because Tapworth’s boy went up the High Street on a bicycle,” said Mr. Altham, who had a great gift of picking out single threads from the tangle of his wife’s conversation; “though, after all, the High Street leads to other houses besides Mrs. Evans’. The station, for instance.”
“You seem to want to find fault with everything I say, to-night, Henry. I don’t know what makes you so contrary. But there it is: I saw eighteen yards of Suffragette riband being sent out when I happened to be in Tapworth’s this morning, and I daresay that’s but a tithe of what has been ordered, though I can’t say as to that, unless you expect me to stand in the High Street all day and watch. And as to what it all means, I’ll let you conjecture for yourself, since if I told you what I thought, you would probably contradict me again.”
It was no wonder that Mrs. Altham was annoyed. She had been thrilled to the marrow by the parcels of Suffragette riband, and when she communicated her discovery, Henry, who usually was so sympathetic, had seen nothing to be thrilled about. But he had not meant to be unsympathetic, and repaired his error.