"Oh, deary me." She moved the end of her apron over a polished table, slowly. "And me making griddle cakes."
This was not a lament for wasted griddle cakes, but her salute to the strangeness of life.
"I expect you'll need breakfast," she said to Tisdall, softened by her unconscious recognition of the fact that the best are but puppets.
But Tisdall wanted no breakfast. He shook his head and turned away to the window, while the sergeant searched in the desk.
"I wouldn't mind one of those griddle cakes," the sergeant said, turning over papers.
"You won't get better in Kent, though it's me that's saying it. And perhaps Mr. Stannaway will swallow some tea."
She went away to the kitchen.
"So you didn't know her name was Robinson?" said the sergeant, glancing up.
"Mrs. Pitts always addressed her as 'miss. And anyhow, did she look as if her name was Robinson?"
The sergeant, too, did not believe for a moment that her name was Robinson, so he let the subject drop.