"I must send some of these pears in to you, Giddy," she says, "I can't spare the apples, but your cook may like to stew——"
She pauses, reading her friend's expression of disdain.
She stammers something unintelligible to hide her confusion, wondering what she has said to offend, and changing the subject, asks hesitatingly:
"Did—er did you put me up for the 'Butterflies?'"
Mrs. Mounteagle had only that morning requested Lady MacDonald to second Eleanor.
Now she grows crimson at the thought, for Lady MacDonald is her trump card in the club.
"Thinking it over," replies Giddy. "I am quite sure Mr. Roche won't approve of us poor little Butterflies. He will imagine that a club must necessarily be emancipated, that it will lead you into latchkey habits, and advance your ideas too rapidly. I should advise you to stay at home, my dear, and" (with a cynical little smile) "stew your pears."
Mrs. Grebby has drawn the parish magazine from the recesses of an enormous pocket in her petticoat, and hands it to her daughter.
"I thought you'd like to read the news," she says. "Mrs. King's baby was christened last Sunday, and the little Browns have spread the measles in the schools."
Lady MacDonald and Giddy exchange glances that palpably say: "Why don't we go?"