Mr. Drybeck could think of nothing better to say than: “Indeed!” and the Major, whose consciousness of his wife's absurdities impelled him to do what he could to justify them, said apologetically: “Delicate little beggars, you know!”
“No, Lion! Not delicate!” said Mrs. Midgeholme. “But with a first litter one can't be too careful. Ullapool will be looking for Mother to come and hold her paw. I must away! Play well, both of you! Come, Peekies! Come to Mother!”
With these words, and a wave of one hand, she set off down the street, leaving the two men to proceed in the opposite direction, towards Wood Lane.
“Extraordinarily intelligent, those Pekes,” said the Major, in a confidential tone. “Sporting, too. You wouldn't think it to look at them, but if you take them on the common they're down every rabbit-hole.”
Mr. Drybeck, schooling his features to an expression of spurious interest, said: “Really?” and tried unavailingly to think of something to add to this unencouraging response. Fortunately, they had reached the first of the shops, which combined groceries with haberdashery and stationery, and also harboured the Post Office, and a diversion was created by the emergence from its portals of Miss Miriam Patterdale, vigorously affixing a stamp to a postcard. She accorded them a curt nod, and thrust the card into the letter-box, saying cryptically: “That's to the laundry! We shall see what excuse they can think up this time. I suppose you're going to the Haswells'? You'll find Abby there. I'm told she plays quite a good game.”
“Very creditable indeed,” agreed Mr. Drybeck. “A strong backhand, unusual in one of her sex.”
“Nonsense!” said Miss Patterdale, disposing of this without compunction. “Time you stopped talking like an Edwardian, Thaddeus. No patience with it!”
“I fear” said Mr. Drybeck, with a thin smile, “that I am quite an old fogy.”
“Nothing to be proud of in that,” said Miss Patterdale, correctly divining his attitude.
Mr. Drybeck was silenced. He had known Miss Patterdale for a number of years, but she had never lost her power to intimidate him. She was a weather-beaten spinster of angular outline and sharp features. She invariably wore suits of severe cut, cropped her grey locks extremely short, and screwed a monocle into one eye. But this was misleading: her sight really was irregular. She was the older daughter of the late Vicar of the parish, and upon his death, some ten years previously, she had removed from the Vicarage to the cottage at the corner of Fox Lane, from which humble abode she still exercised a ruthless but beneficent tyranny over the present incumbent's parishioners. Since the Reverend Anthony Cliburn's wife was of a shy and a retiring nature, only too thankful to have her responsibilities wrested from her by a more forceful hand, not the smallest unpleasantness had ever arisen between the ladies. Mrs. Cliburn was frequently heard to say that she didn't know what any of them would do without Miriam; and Miss Patterdale, responding to this tribute, asserted in a very handsome spirit, that although Edith hadn't an ounce of common sense or moral courage she did her best, and always meant well.