“I lay he did. She told me there was a whisk-drive that afternoon at the Institute, an’ she couldn’t bother to do the choppin’.”
“Tck!”
Mrs. Ashcroft put the last firm touches to the basket-lining. She had scarcely finished when her sixteen-year-old grandson, a maiden of the moment in attendance, hurried up the garden-path shouting to know if the thing were ready, snatched it, and made off without acknowledgment. Mrs. Fettley peered at him closely.
“They’re goin’ picnickin’ somewheres,” Mrs. Ashcroft explained.
“Ah,” said the other, with narrowed eyes. “I lay he won’t show much mercy to any he comes across, either. Now ’oo the dooce do he remind me of, all of a sudden?”
“They must look arter theirselves—’same as we did.” Mrs. Ashcroft began to set out the tea.
“No denyin’ you could, Gracie,” said Mrs. Fettley.
“What’s in your head now?”
“Dunno.... But it come over me, sudden-like—about dat woman from Rye—I’ve slipped the name—Barnsley, wadn’t it?”
“Batten—Polly Batten, you’re thinkin’ of.”