She might also expound to her
her peculiar dislike of people's husbands, and her profound craving to
be, at least for this one month, let alone.
But Scrap had her doubts about this too. Such talk meant a
certain familiarity, meant embarking on a friendship with Mrs. Wilkins;
and if, after having embarked on it and faced the peril it contained of
too much Mrs. Wilkins, Mr. Wilkins should turn out to be artful--and
people did get very artful when they were set on anything--and manage
after all to slip through into the top garden, Mrs. Wilkins might
easily believe she had been taken in, and that she, Scrap, was
deceitful. Deceitful! And about Mr. Wilkins. Wives were really
pathetic.
At half-past four she heard sounds of saucers on the other side
of the daphne bushes. Was tea being sent out to her?
No; the sounds came no closer, they stopped near the house. Tea
was to be in the garden, in her garden. Scrap considered she might at
least have been asked if she minded being disturbed. They all knew she
sat there.
Perhaps some one would bring hers to her in her corner.
No; nobody brought anything.
Well, she was too hungry not to go and have it with the others
to-day, but she would give Francesca strict orders for the future.
She got up, and walked with that slow grace which was another of
her outrageous number of attractions towards the sounds of tea.
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