“Are we to have the pleasure of seeing you at The Cedars, Miss Patterdale?” asked the Major, breaking an uncomfortable silence.
“No, my dear man, you are not. I don't play tennis—never did!—and if there's one think I bar it's watching country-house games. Besides, someone's got to milk the goats.”
“It's a curious thing,” said the Major, “but try as I will I can't like goats' milk. My wife occasionally used it during the War-years, but I never acquired a liking for it.”
“It would have been more curious if you had. Filthy stuff!” said Mils Patterdale candidly. “The villagers think it's good for their children: that's why I keep the brutes. Oh, well! There's a lot of nonsense talked about children nowadays: the truth is that they thrive on any muck.”
Upon which trenchant remark she favoured them with another of her curt nods, screwed her monocle more securely into place, and strode off down the street.
“Remarkable woman, that,” observed the Major.
“Yes, indeed,” responded Mr. Drybeck unenthusiastically.
“Extraordinarily pretty girl, that niece of hers. Not a bit like her, is she?”
“Her mother—Fanny Patterdale that was—was always considered the better-looking of the sisters,” said Mr. Drybeck repressively. “I fancy you were not acquainted with her.”
“No, before my time,” agreed the Major, realising that he had been put in his place by the Second Oldest Inhabitant, and submitting to it. “I'm a comparative newcomer, of course.”