“Accidents happen so unexpectedly, sir,” she answered, a shadow crossing her sad face. And I was sorry to have said it: it had put her in mind of her husband.
“You are coming up this evening, you know, Mrs. Trewin,” said mother. “Don’t be late.”
“It is very good of you to have asked me, ma’am,” she answered gratefully. “I said so to Miss Timmens. I’m sure it will be something new to have such a treat. Nettie, poor child, will enjoy it too.”
Molly came banging in with a tray of pork-pies, just out of the oven. The mater told Mrs. Trewin to take one, and offered her a glass of beer.
But, instead of eating the pie, she wrapped it in paper to take with her home, and declined the beer, lest it should give her a headache for the evening.
So Mrs. Trewin took her departure; and, under cover of it, I helped myself to another of the pork-pies. Weren’t they good! After that the morning went on again, and the tart-making with it.
The last of the paste was being used up, the last of the jam jars stood open, and the clock told us that it was getting on for one, when we had another visitor: Miss Timmens, the schoolmistress. She came in, stamping the snow from her shoes on the mat, her thin figure clad in an old long cloth cloak, and the chronic redness in her face turned purple.
“My word! It is a day, ma’am, this is!” she exclaimed.
“And what have you come through it for?” asked Mrs. Todhetley. “About the forms? Why, I sent word to you by Luke Mackintosh that they would be fetched at two o’clock.”
“He never came, then,” said Miss Timmens, irate at Luke’s negligence. “That Mackintosh is not worth his salt. What delicious-looking tartlets!” exclaimed she, as she sat down. “And what a lot of them!”