“Fidget, fidget, that’s all a woman is when cleaning. Tidying up means hiding. There is an order in my disorder. Yesterday I spent half an hour looking for the church accounts which I found eventually, tidied away into the private correspondence. I can’t bear it. You do understand, don’t you, Mrs. Baxter? Of course I am not blaming you in the least, but . . .”
“Very well, Mr. Entwhistle. I understand, sir.” Sniff!
Something like that, but it was the sniff. It was the first sign of a mystery that had been so exciting till she had known.
His private correspondence. That can’t have been anything. Only letters to Mrs. Haye—oh, yes, and to the Bishop. He had scored off the Bishop one day. A great thing. Butter with her bread and jam that day.
But times had been hard. Really they were better off there. The food had dwindled, she had felt hungry a good deal.
“A wage less than a labourer.”
“Oh, yes.”
“What’s that? Well, isn’t it?”
“It wouldn’t be.”
“Well then, approximately. And then there are your clothes to buy and the child’s.”