He, too, had had his moment of disappointment. [p64] Lynn had told him there was no other lady in their house but Miss Bibby; and then the figure that had given him some pleasurable emotions an hour ago—the slender white figure that had walked on the path between the flowers—turned out on close view to be merely a thin woman of almost forty, in a floppy puce-coloured muslin gown.
And Lynn was unwittingly merciless to the temporary occupant of her mother’s place. When Kinross had asked her if it was Miss Bibby who was up so early and walking among the trees, she volunteered, in addition to the affirmative—which would have been quite enough—that she walked about like that when she was doing some of her deep-breathing exercises. And that after her deep-breathing exercises she always skipped backwards for five minutes, and after the skipping she lay down flat on the floor and kept lifting up her head in such a funny way.
And of course this led to an account of Miss Bibby’s eccentricities of diet, of which Kinross soon knew all that seemed worth knowing. At first he had hardly listened as the irrepressibles chattered away, or he might have bidden them respect the lady’s idiosyncrasies. But a sudden image confronted him of the figure in limp muslin, solemnly skipping for the good of her health, and he gave a great roar of laughter and [p65] vowed to himself he would use her for “copy” some day.
But now they were at the shops and Lynn and Max were greatly excited.
They pointed out the different places to him.
This was Benson’s, and he made the most delicious drop cakes that ever were; they always bought some when they were going for picnics, and gen’ally on a Saturday, when Anna had no time to make cakes, they had them again. Hugh was solemnly warned not to be beguiled into dealing with Dunks. Dunks did give, it was true, nine for sixpence; but then Pauline had measured them once with Miss Bibby’s tape measure—measured them “longways, and broadways, and fatways,” and Benson’s had been fully half an inch superior.
These were the two photographers. It was advisable to deal with this one, for he always gave you the whole tray down to choose from when you went to buy picture post-cards, and the other man didn’t, ’cause he was afraid your hands were dirty. But they never were when you went for a walk, only Max’s sometimes, because he still fell down a lot (this point Max contested hotly).
These were the two shoe-makers: if you broke the strap of your sandals this one could fix it best; but if you wore out your climbing [p66] shoes, and wanted a new pair made, it was advisable to patronize this one.
And these were the grocers. Poor old Septimus Smith would have stirred uncomfortably in the dreams that still held him, could he have heard Lynn and Max vigorously advising Burunda’s latest stranger never on any pretence whatever to buy as much as half a pound of butter at his establishment.
And Octavius, sleepily sweeping his shop and doing the manifold duties of little Larkin, who was fast nearing the poor selection for his dearly-earned holiday,—Octavius would himself have been amazed at the number of good points his business had. His currants—how much cleaner than the currants of Septimus,—his bacon—words seemed inadequate to describe his bacon. He gave you a whole penny box of chocolates each when you went with Anna to pay his bill. He saved you the tinfoil from his tea-boxes and the lovely paper ribbon off the boxes of raisins.