“I thought I told you to bake one.”
“Yes, miss. There ain’t no baking powder.”
“Oh, very well. I’ll order some. Put a little jam out.”
“There only be gooseberry, miss.”
“Then we’ll say gooseberry.”
Eve returned to the garden in time to hear the purr of a motor-car in the main road. The car stopped at the end of the lane. A door banged, and a figure in black appeared beyond the gate.
It was the Cantertons’ car that had stopped at the end of the lane, and it was Mrs. Canterton who opened the gate, smiling and nodding at Mrs. Carfax. Gertrude Canterton had paid a first formal call some months ago, leaving in Eve’s mind the picture of a very expeditious woman who might whirl down on you in an aeroplane, make a few remarks on the weather, and then whirl off again.
“Please don’t get up! Please don’t get up! I mustn’t stay three minutes. Isn’t the weather exquisite. Ah, how do you do, Miss Carfax?”
She extended a hand with an affected flick of the wrist, smiling all the while, and wriggling her shoulders.
“Eve, fetch another chair, dear.”