“Then ‘smell.’ And the mud of your Pool down there—does it not smell, or may I say ‘stink, ha, ha’?”
“There always has been mud in Poole Harbour,” said Mrs. Munt, with a slight frown. “The rivers bring it down, and a most valuable oyster-fishery depends upon it.”
“Yes, that is so,” conceded Frieda; and another international incident was closed.
“‘Bournemouth is,’” resumed their hostess, quoting a local rhyme to which she was much attached—” ‘Bournemouth is, Poole was, and Swanage is to be the most important town of all and biggest of the three.’ Now, Frau Liesecke, I have shown you Bournemouth, and I have shown you Poole, so let us walk backward a little, and look down again at Swanage.”
“Aunt Juley, wouldn’t that be Meg’s train?”
A tiny puff of smoke had been circling the harbour, and now was bearing southwards towards them over the black and the gold.
“Oh, dearest Margaret, I do hope she won’t be overtired.”
“Oh, I do wonder—I do wonder whether she’s taken the house.”
“I hope she hasn’t been hasty.”
“So do I—oh, so do I.”