“Perhaps she’ll become Mrs. Dodson,” he answered dryly. But as Mr. Dodson was sixty-four and Jean Bower twenty-one, that didn’t seem very likely.
Lifting his hat, Dr. Maclean walked briskly on his way, telling himself that Miss Prince, like most clever people, was an extraordinary bundle of contradictions—kind, spiteful, generous, suspicious, affectionate and hard-hearted, and a mischief-maker all the time!
The subject of his thoughts hurried on toward the Thatched House. She was precise in all her ways, and she wanted to leave her little gift for Mrs. Garlett, enjoy a short talk with Agatha Cheale, and then get back to her midday meal by one o’clock.
“I’ll see Miss Cheale just for a minute,” she said to the maid—not Lucy Warren—who opened the door. “I suppose she’s in her sitting room?”
Without waiting for an answer Miss Prince went off, with her quick, decided step, through into the house she knew so well.
As the door opened, Agatha Cheale turned round quickly, filled with a sudden, unreasonable hope that it might be Harry Garlett. He had gone to the china factory this morning, though it was Saturday, and he had telephoned that he would be back to luncheon.
But she reminded herself bitterly that he never sought her out now. If he had anything to communicate to her connected with the running of the house, he always made a point of doing so at one of the rare meals they took together, in the presence of the parlour-maid, Lucy Warren.
“I’ve brought a few forced strawberries for poor Emily,” began Miss Prince, and then, lowering her voice perceptibly, she added: “I understand she’s not so well as usual?”
The other looked at her surprised.
“I see no change,” she said indifferently.