“What would you describe as its proper place?” she asked.
“Out of doors,” he answered, surprised that a clever woman should ask so obvious a question.
Then, while the three women sat and watched him, he made the tea, taking from the caddy a spoonful for each guest, and an additional spoonful for the requisite strength, according to custom. Mr Musgrave had made his own tea for many years; he saw no reason now for discontinuing this practice, though one person present—the one with the least right—would gladly have relieved him of the task. It was so pathetic, she reflected, to see a man making the tea; it was significant of his lonely state. Clearly a man needed a wife to perform this homely office, a wife of a suitable age, with similar tastes, who would never distress him with any display of unwomanly traits.
“I always think that no one makes tea quite like you do,” she murmured sweetly, as she received her cup from John Musgrave’s hand.
Which speech, in its ambiguity, Mrs Chadwick considered extremely diplomatic.
Chapter Seven.
“I have,” said Mrs Chadwick dramatically that same evening to Mrs Sommers, “been exactly a week in Moresby, and I have made two enemies. What will be the result when I have lived here a year?”
This question opened up ground for reflection. Belle reflected. She did it, as she did most things, quickly.