if Mr Pillson is thinking of taking it, what next, Elizabeth?’ she asked.
Miss Mapp bent to kiss the roses in that beautiful vase of flowers which she had cut this morning in preparation for Lucia’s visit.
‘Nothing particular, dear,’ she said. ‘Just one of my madcap notions. You and I might take Mallards Cottage between us, if it appealed to you. Sweet Isabel is only asking four guineas a week for it. If Mr Pillson happens – it’s only a speculation – to want it, we might ask, say, six. So cheap at six.’
Diva rose.
‘Shan’t touch it,’ she said. ‘What if Mr Pillson doesn’t want it? A pure speculation.’
‘Perhaps it would be rather risky,’ said Miss Mapp. ‘And now I come to think of it, possibly, possibly rather stealing a march – don’t they call it – on my friends.’
‘Oh, decidedly,’ said Diva. ‘No “possibly possibly” about it.’
Miss Mapp winced for a moment under this smart rap, and changed the subject.
‘I shall have little more than a month, then, in my dear house,’ she said, ‘before I’m turned out of it. I must make the most of it, and have a quantity of little gaieties for you all.’
Georgie and Lucia had another long stroll through the town after their dinner. The great celestial signs behaved admirably; it was as if the spirit of Tilling had arranged that sun, moon and stars alike should put forth their utmost arts of advertisement on its behalf, for scarcely had the fires of sunset ceased to blaze on its red walls and roofs and to incarnadine the thin skeins of mist that hung over the marsh, than a large punctualmoon arose in the east and executed the most wonderful nocturnes in black and silver.
They found a great grey Norman tower keeping watch seaward, an Edwardian gate with drum towers looking out landward: they found a belvedere platform built out on a steep slope to the east of the town, and the odour of the flowering hawthorns that grew there was wafted to them as they gazed at a lighthouse winking in the distance. In another street there stood Elizabethan cottages of brick and timber, very picturesque, but of no interest to those who were at home in Riseholme. Then there were human interests as well: quaint Irene was sitting, while the sunset flamed, on a camp-stool in the middle of a street, hatless and trousered, painting a most remarkable picture, apparently of the Day of Judgment, for the whole world was enveloped in fire. Just as they passed her her easel fell down, and in a loud angry voice she said, ‘Damn the beastly thing.’ Then they saw Diva scuttling along the High Street carrying a bird-cage. She called up to an open window very lamentably, ‘Oh, Dr Dobbie, please! My canary’s had a fit!’ From another window, also open and unblinded, positively inviting scrutiny, there came a baritone voice singing ‘Will ye no’ come back again?’ and there, sure enough, was the Padre from Birmingham, with the little grey mouse tinkling on the piano. They could not tear themselves away (indeed there was quite a lot of people listening) till the song was over, and then they stole up the street, at the head of which stood Mallards, and from the house just below it came a muffled cry of ‘
Quai-hai
’, and Lucia’s lips formed the syllables ‘Major Benjy. At his diaries.’ They tiptoed on past Mallards itself, for the garden-room window was open wide, and so past Mallards Cottage, till they were out of sight.
‘Georgie, entrancing,’ said Lucia. ‘They’re all being themselves, and all so human and busy –’
‘If I don’t get Mallards Cottage,’ said Georgie, ‘I shall die.’
‘But you must. You shall. Now it’s time to go to bed, though I could wander about for ever. We must be up early in order to get to the house-agents’ as soon as it’s open. Woggles & Pickstick, isn’t it?’
‘Now you’ve confused me,’ said Georgie. ‘Rather like it, but not quite.’
They went upstairs to bed: their rooms were next
Miss Mapp bent to kiss the roses in that beautiful vase of flowers which she had cut this morning in preparation for Lucia’s visit.
‘Nothing particular, dear,’ she said. ‘Just one of my madcap notions. You and I might take Mallards Cottage between us, if it appealed to you. Sweet Isabel is only asking four guineas a week for it. If Mr Pillson happens – it’s only a speculation – to want it, we might ask, say, six. So cheap at six.’
Diva rose.
‘Shan’t touch it,’ she said. ‘What if Mr Pillson doesn’t want it? A pure speculation.’
‘Perhaps it would be rather risky,’ said Miss Mapp. ‘And now I come to think of it, possibly, possibly rather stealing a march – don’t they call it – on my friends.’
‘Oh, decidedly,’ said Diva. ‘No “possibly possibly” about it.’
Miss Mapp winced for a moment under this smart rap, and changed the subject.
‘I shall have little more than a month, then, in my dear house,’ she said, ‘before I’m turned out of it. I must make the most of it, and have a quantity of little gaieties for you all.’
Georgie and Lucia had another long stroll through the town after their dinner. The great celestial signs behaved admirably; it was as if the spirit of Tilling had arranged that sun, moon and stars alike should put forth their utmost arts of advertisement on its behalf, for scarcely had the fires of sunset ceased to blaze on its red walls and roofs and to incarnadine the thin skeins of mist that hung over the marsh, than a large punctualmoon arose in the east and executed the most wonderful nocturnes in black and silver.
They found a great grey Norman tower keeping watch seaward, an Edwardian gate with drum towers looking out landward: they found a belvedere platform built out on a steep slope to the east of the town, and the odour of the flowering hawthorns that grew there was wafted to them as they gazed at a lighthouse winking in the distance. In another street there stood Elizabethan cottages of brick and timber, very picturesque, but of no interest to those who were at home in Riseholme. Then there were human interests as well: quaint Irene was sitting, while the sunset flamed, on a camp-stool in the middle of a street, hatless and trousered, painting a most remarkable picture, apparently of the Day of Judgment, for the whole world was enveloped in fire. Just as they passed her her easel fell down, and in a loud angry voice she said, ‘Damn the beastly thing.’ Then they saw Diva scuttling along the High Street carrying a bird-cage. She called up to an open window very lamentably, ‘Oh, Dr Dobbie, please! My canary’s had a fit!’ From another window, also open and unblinded, positively inviting scrutiny, there came a baritone voice singing ‘Will ye no’ come back again?’ and there, sure enough, was the Padre from Birmingham, with the little grey mouse tinkling on the piano. They could not tear themselves away (indeed there was quite a lot of people listening) till the song was over, and then they stole up the street, at the head of which stood Mallards, and from the house just below it came a muffled cry of ‘
Quai-hai
’, and Lucia’s lips formed the syllables ‘Major Benjy. At his diaries.’ They tiptoed on past Mallards itself, for the garden-room window was open wide, and so past Mallards Cottage, till they were out of sight.
‘Georgie, entrancing,’ said Lucia. ‘They’re all being themselves, and all so human and busy –’
‘If I don’t get Mallards Cottage,’ said Georgie, ‘I shall die.’
‘But you must. You shall. Now it’s time to go to bed, though I could wander about for ever. We must be up early in order to get to the house-agents’ as soon as it’s open. Woggles & Pickstick, isn’t it?’
‘Now you’ve confused me,’ said Georgie. ‘Rather like it, but not quite.’
They went upstairs to bed: their rooms were next
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