As Mrs. Otway turned away, and silently left the kitchen, the old woman shook her head with an impatient gesture. Why make all that fuss over the fact that Major Guthrie was a prisoner in Germany? Anna could imagine no happier fate just now than that of being in the Fatherland—even as a prisoner. She could remember the generous way in which the French prisoners, or at least some of them, had been treated in 1870. Why, the then Crown Princess—she who was later known as “the Englishwoman”—had always visited those wards containing the French prisoners first, before she went and saw the German wounded. Anna could remember very clearly the angry remarks which had been provoked by that royal lady’s action, as also by her strange notion that the wounded required plenty of fresh air.
Some time ago Anna had seen in an English paper, in fact it had been pointed out to her by Mrs. Otway herself, that the German Government had had to restrain the daughters and wives of the Fatherland from over-kindness to the French.
Still, when all was said and done, good old Anna was genuinely glad that Major Guthrie was safe. It would make her gracious lady more cheerful, and it also provided herself with a little bit of gossip wherewith to secure a warmer welcome from Alfred Head when she went along to supper with him and his Polly this very evening.
“That sort of letter may be very valuable in our business—I know best its worth to me.”
The owner of the Witanbury Stores was speaking English, and addressing his pretty wife.
Anna, just arrived, had at once become aware that the atmosphere was electric, that something very like a quarrel was going on between Alfred Head and Polly. Mrs. Head looked very angry, and there was a red spot on each of her delicately tinted cheeks.
Only half the table had been laid for supper under the bright pendant lamp; on the other half were spread out some dirty-looking letters. In each letter a number of lines had been heavily blacked out—on one indeed there was very little left of the original writing.
“It’s such rubbish!” Polly said crossly. “Why, by spending a penny each Sunday on The News of the World or on Reynolds’s, you’d see a lot more letters than you’ve got there, and all nicely printed, too!”
She turned to the visitor: “Alfred can’t spare me half a sovereign for something I want really badly, but he can give seven-and-sixpence to a dirty old woman for a sight of all that muck!” Snatching one of the letters off the table, she began reading aloud: “My dear Mum, I hope that this finds you as well as it does me. We are giving it to the Allemans, as they call them out here, right in the neck.” She waved the sheet she was reading and exclaimed, “And then comes four lines so scrubbed about that even the Old Gentleman himself couldn’t read them! Still, it’s for that Alfred here is willing to pay——”
Her husband interrupted her furiously: “Put that down at once! D’you hear, Polly? I’m the best judge of what a thing’s worth to me in my business. If I give Mrs. Tippins seven-and-sixpence for her letters, they’re worth seven-and-sixpence to me and a bit over. See? I shouldn’t ’a thought it was necessary to tell you that!”