And the carriage rolled away towards St. Launce’s.
Out rushed Mrs. Smith from behind a laurel-bush, where she had stood pondering.
“Just going to touch my hat to her,” said John; “just for all the world as I would have to poor Lady Luxellian years ago.”
“Lord! who is she?”
“The public-house woman—what’s her name? Mrs.—Mrs.—at the Falcon.”
“Public-house woman. The clumsiness of the Smith family! You MIGHT say the landlady of the Falcon Hotel, since we are in for politeness. The people are ridiculous enough, but give them their due.”
The possibility is that Mrs. Smith was getting mollified, in spite of herself, by these remarkably friendly phenomena among the people of St. Launce’s. And in justice to them it was quite desirable that she should do so. The interest which the unpractised ones of this town expressed so grotesquely was genuine of its kind, and equal in intrinsic worth to the more polished smiles of larger communities.
By this time Mr. and Mrs. Trewen were returning from the garden.
“I’ll ask ’em flat,” whispered John to his wife. “I’ll say, ‘We be in a fog—you’ll excuse my asking a question, Mr. and Mrs. Trewen. How is it you all be so friendly to-day?’ Hey? ’Twould sound right and sensible, wouldn’t it?”
“Not a word! Good mercy, when will the man have manners!”