Miss Marsh bounced up from her chair, rudely severing the acquiescent silence that followed on this well-worn cliché.
"I'm going up to get my knitting. I simply must get those socks done for Christmas. I suppose no one will be shocked at my knitting on Sunday?"
"Gracious, no! Especially when it's for the Army. When's he coming on leave, Marshie?"
"Oh, goodness knows! The poor boy's in hospital out there. Can I fetch anything for any one while I'm upstairs?"
"My work-basket, if you wouldn't mind," said Grace.
"I say," asked Mrs. Potter, as the door slammed behind Miss Marsh, "is she engaged?"
"Oh no. She has heaps of pals, you know," Miss Henderson explained. "She's that sort of girl, I fancy. Haven't you noticed all the letters she gets with the field postmark? It isn't always the same boy, either, because there are quite three different handwritings. And her brothers are both in the Navy, so it isn't them."
"Well," said Miss Delmege, with the little air of originality so seldom justified by her utterances, "they say there's safety in numbers."
"Here's your basket, Gracie," said Miss Marsh, reappearing breathless. "How extraordinarily tidy you are! I always know exactly where to find your things—that is, if mine aren't all over them!"
"What are you going to make, Gracie?"