‘Thanks awfully, I will,’ said Stephen.
4
‘Had a breakdown or something?’ inquired Puddle brightly, as at three o’clock Stephen slouched into the schoolroom.
‘No—but Mrs. Crossby’s dog had a fight. She got bitten, so I drove her back to The Grange.’
Puddle pricked up her ears: ‘What’s she like? I’ve heard rumours—’
‘Well, she’s not at all like them,’ snapped Stephen.
There ensued a long silence while Puddle considered, but consideration does not always bring wise counsel, and now Puddle made a really bad break: ‘She’s pretty impossible, isn’t she, Stephen? They say he unearthed her somewhere in New York; Mrs. Antrim says she was a music-hall actress. I suppose you were obliged to give her a lift, but be careful, I believe she’s fearfully pushing.’
Stephen flared up like an emotional schoolgirl: ‘I’m not going to discuss her if that’s your opinion; Mrs. Crossby is quite as much a lady as you are, or any of the others round here, for that matter. I’m sick unto death of your beastly gossip.’ And turning abruptly she strode from the room.
‘Oh, Lord!’ murmured Puddle, frowning.