Mrs. McAlpine’s genteel voice filtered through the shrubs.
“I knew the dear Duchess very well—in her maiden days. We visited at the same house in the Midlands.”
“That humbug! Her motto is ‘Who’s who?’ I don’t believe that she ever got farther than the housekeeper’s room at Warne. Some day, when I’ve bought enough oak and china, I’ll devote a little time to unmasking her. Tea will be served in half an hour. There’s dear Mrs. Turle going weightily toward the house to coach her three maids how to set cups.”
“Gainah is like that—or was before I deposed her. Cook did nothing but wash dishes.”
“You may sort women into two classes: those who can’t touch a chicken unless they’ve cleaned it themselves, and those who, if they are obliged to clean it, can’t eat it. Do come with me to Mrs. Hone’s—this way; through the gate, across the field, and into the Liddleshorn road. She has a Chippendale teatray which she has half promised to sell. We shall have plenty of time before tea.”
They went across the field, black-horned cattle following them curiously. Occasional cottages sparsely dotted the straight road leading to Liddleshorn. Two new ones, with vivid roofs of smooth tiles running up in conical shape to a chimney like an exaggerated pimple, had a blue metal plate lettered with white between the narrow doors.
“You are pretty safe in saying that every singularly ugly cottage is tenanted by the county police. Mrs. Hone lives at this next one with the bush of Jew’s mallow.”
They went in single file up the narrow flag path. Sheets of white candytuft crept coldly along the edge of the borders from the wooden gate to the door. In the little patch of kitchen garden row after row of cabbage with a blue bloom looked to Pamela like a generously flung out art carpet. The man at the best shop in Liddleshorn had shown her one just that shade. Straight ahead, across the railway bridge, a train shot past, the tails of smoke like drifting opal under the bright sun.
Mrs. Hone was hobbling about her garden.
“Poor old dear! She looks like a camel whose hump has slipped. Now, you must say nothing, look nothing—or you’ll spoil my bargain. Good-afternoon, Mrs. Hone. How’s the rheumatism?”