"No need to think about epitaphs yet," said Dr. Lipscomb.
"Our lives are in the hands of the Lord," said Miss Ormerod simply.
Dr. Lipscomb bent his head and looked out of the window. Miss Ormerod remained silent.
"English entomologists care little or nothing for objects of practical importance," she exclaimed suddenly. "Take this question of flour infestation—I can't say how many grey hairs that hasn't grown me."
"Figuratively speaking. Miss Ormerod," said Dr. Lipscomb, for her hair was still raven black.
"Well, I do believe all good work is done in concert," Miss Ormerod continued. "It is often a great comfort to me to think that."
"It's beginning to rain," said Dr. Lipscomb. "How will your enemies like that, Miss Ormerod?"
"Hot or cold, wet or dry, insects always flourish!" cried Miss Ormerod, energetically sitting up in bed.
"Old Miss Ormerod is dead," said Mr. Drummond, opening The Times on Saturday, July 20th, 1901.
"Old Miss Ormerod?" asked Mrs. Drummond.