“We have not heard any delightful one,” said Mrs. Gifford.
“What, do you mean to say that you have not heard that that pretty Miss Wadhurst, the girl with that wonderful hair, you know, is engaged to Jack Wingfield? Why, where have you been living? Don’t you take in the Morning Post? No? Oh, well, I suppose it would not contain much to interest you.”
Mrs. Bowlby-Sutherst was very much of the county; she was indifferent to Framsby’s “sets.” She watched with malicious interest the collapse of the leader of the best and resumed her revelation.
“Oh, yes; it was in the Post this morning, ‘A marriage is arranged,’ and the rest of it. I knew that you would all be glad to hear of it, but I thought that you would be the first to get the pleasant news. Rosa and I are driving to the Manor to offer our felicitations. Miss Wadhurst is staying there with Mrs. Wingfield. It’s so nice when a handsome and clever girl like that is making a good match; and the poor girl deserves something good as a set-off against that unlucky affair of hers.”
“She is a clever young woman,” said Mrs. Gifford spitefully. “Oh, yes, a very clever young woman! I hear that she milks her father’s cows.”
“Oh, my dear Mrs. Gifford, you are very far behind the times,” laughed Rosa. “Nobody milks cows nowadays. You might as well talk of Priscilla using one of the old barrel churns. It’s all done by machinery.”
“And will you have some of the machine-made in your tea, Rosa?” asked Mrs. Bowlby-Sutherst, poising the jug over the cups which had just been brought to the table.
“Thank you—that’s enough,” said Rosa. “And let me offer you some of the machine-made butter on the machine-made bread.”
“I think I’ll try a hand at a hand-made sandwich,” said Mrs. Bowlby-Sutherst. “There’s a joke in that somewhere, I feel—can you catch it?”
“Hand-made sandwiches made by the handmaid of the caterer—is that it?” asked Rosa after a thoughtful frown—the frown of the habitual prize acrostic-solver and anagram-maker of the English vicarage.