"No. You'll stay here and talk to me. Mrs. Sutcliffe really is busy."
"Sewing-party?"
"Sewing-party."
She could see them sitting round the dining-room: Mrs. Waugh and Miss Frewin, Mrs. Belk with her busy eyes, and Miss Kendal and Miss Louisa, Mrs. Oldshaw and Dorsy; and Mrs. Horn, the grocer's wife, very stiff in a corner by herself, sewing unbleached calico and hot red flannel, hot sunlight soaking into them. The library was dim, and leathery and tobaccoey and cool.
The last time she came on a Wednesday Mrs. Sutcliffe had popped out of the dining-room and made them go round to the tennis court by the back, so that they might not be seen from the windows. She wondered why Mrs. Sutcliffe was so afraid of them being seen, and why she had not looked quite pleased.
And to-day—there was something about Mr. Sutcliffe.
"You don't want to play?"
"After tea. When it's cooler. We'll have it in here. By ourselves." He got up and rang the bell.
The tea-table between them, and she, pouring out the tea. She was grown up. Her hair was grown up. It lay like a wreath, plaited on the top of her head.
He was smoothing out the wrinkles of one hand with the other, and smiling. "Everybody busy except you and me, Mary…. How are you getting on with Kant?"