"You haven't answered my question. How's John?" she asked.
"John's all right. I won't ask after Foster as I met him in the market."
"Then if you saw him in the market you saw the most disreputable hat in the East Riding. Mary, what do you do to your husband when he will dress himself up as an 'old clo' man? I've hidden that hat. I've danced on it. I've even put it in the rubbish bin, but up it comes again and goes to market on Wednesdays, as though he'd just bought it from Henry Heath's. What am I to do?"
"I should burn it," suggested Mary calmly.
Ursula at least was alive. She was not in any way a tree of the valley. It was a relief to know that there still were some people with vitality left.
Louisa's soft voice cooed disapproval:
"Wouldn't that be rather wasteful?"
"Wasteful? Good Lord, if you could see it you wouldn't talk about waste! Aunt Jane, you ought to be used to dealing with this sort of thing. What do you do with Dickie when he's obstinate?"
"Dickie!" Mary looked up with apprehension to see if the roof would fall on such astounding levity. But Ursula fully realized the extent of her privilege. She knew the awe-struck pride with which her relatives watched her prowess on the golf links. Her airy impertinences and elusive skirts were forgiven because Anne and Louisa loved to impress strangers with "Mrs. Foster Robson, the Golf Champion." And even Mrs. Tilly would talk confusedly of mashies and niblicks, though she had never been on the links in her life.
"Foster's going to Scotland for a fortnight next week," she announced suddenly.