was a letter from Mrs Apps," Mrs Jolley pursued. "That is Merle, the eldest. Merle has a particular weakness for her mum, perhaps because she was delicate as a kiddy. But struck lucky later on. With a hubby who denies her nothing--within reason, of course, and the demands of his career. Mr Apps--his long service will soon be due--is an executive official at the Customs. I will not say well-thought-of. Indispensable is nearer the mark. So it is not uncommon for Merle to hobnob with the high-ups of the Service, and entertain them to a buffy at her home. Croaky de poison _. Chipperlarters. All that. With perhaps a substantial dish of, say, chicken à la king. I never believe in blowing my own horn, but Merle does things that lovely. Yes. Her buffy has been written up, not once but several times."
Miss Hare observed her beetle.
"Now Merle writes," the housekeeper continued, "and does not, well, exactly say _, because Merle is never one to say _, but lets it be understood she is not at all satisfied with the steps her mum has taken to lead an independent life, since their father passed on, like that, so tragically."
Mrs Jolley watched Miss Hare.
"Of course I did not tell her half. Because Merle would have created. But you will realize the position it has put me in. Seeing as I am a person that always sympathizes with the misfortunes of others."
Mrs Jolley watched Miss Hare. The wind had started up, and the housekeeper did not like it in the open. She was one who would walk very quickly along a road, and hope to reach the shops.
"Everybody is unfortunate, if you can recognize it," said Miss Hare, helping her beetle. "But there are usually compensations for misfortune."
Mrs Jolley drew in her breath. She hated it on the horrid terrace, the wind tweaking her hair-net, and the smell of night threatening her.
"At a nominal wage," she protested, "it is hard lines if a lady should have to look for compensations."
"How people can talk!" Miss Hare exclaimed, not without admiration. "My parents would be at it by the hour. But one could sit quite comfortably inside their words. In a kind of tent. Do you know? When it rains."
"Your parents, poor souls!" Mrs Jolley could not resist.
So that Miss Hare was cut. She removed her finger from the beetle, which ultimately she could not assist.
"Why must you keep harping on my parents?"
The marbled sky was heartrending, if also adamant, its layers of mauve and rose veined by now with black and indigo. The moon was the pale fossil of a moth.
"Who brought them up?" Mrs Jolley laughed against the rather nasty wind. "I have always had consideration for Somebody's feelings, particularly since Somebody witnessed such a very peculiar death."
Miss Hare was almost turned to stone, amongst the neglected urns and the Diana--_Scuola Canova__--whose hand had been broken off at the wrist.
"Will you, please, leave me?" she asked.
"That is what I have been trying to convey," insisted Mrs Jolley. "No person can be put upon indefinitely. And I have been invited," she said, "or it has been suggested by a friend, who suffers from indifferent health, that I should keep her company."
Miss Hare was gulping like a brown frog. It was not the eventuality that appalled, so much as the method of disclosure, and the shock.
"Then, if you really intend," she mumbled.
Mrs Jolley could have devoured one whom she suspected of a weakness.
"It is not as if you wasn't independent before," she reminded, and smiled. "We could hardly call ourselves Australians--could we?--if we was not independent. There is none of my girls as is not able, at a pinch, to mend a fuse, paint the home, or tackle jobs of carpentry."
Mrs Jolley had assumed that monumental stance of somebody with whom it is impossible to argue.
"Perhaps," Miss Hare answered.
When all was said, she would remain a sandy little girl. Her smiles would weave like shallow water over pebbles.
"So," sighed Mrs Jolley, "there it is. I cannot say any more. Nothing
Miss Hare observed her beetle.
"Now Merle writes," the housekeeper continued, "and does not, well, exactly say _, because Merle is never one to say _, but lets it be understood she is not at all satisfied with the steps her mum has taken to lead an independent life, since their father passed on, like that, so tragically."
Mrs Jolley watched Miss Hare.
"Of course I did not tell her half. Because Merle would have created. But you will realize the position it has put me in. Seeing as I am a person that always sympathizes with the misfortunes of others."
Mrs Jolley watched Miss Hare. The wind had started up, and the housekeeper did not like it in the open. She was one who would walk very quickly along a road, and hope to reach the shops.
"Everybody is unfortunate, if you can recognize it," said Miss Hare, helping her beetle. "But there are usually compensations for misfortune."
Mrs Jolley drew in her breath. She hated it on the horrid terrace, the wind tweaking her hair-net, and the smell of night threatening her.
"At a nominal wage," she protested, "it is hard lines if a lady should have to look for compensations."
"How people can talk!" Miss Hare exclaimed, not without admiration. "My parents would be at it by the hour. But one could sit quite comfortably inside their words. In a kind of tent. Do you know? When it rains."
"Your parents, poor souls!" Mrs Jolley could not resist.
So that Miss Hare was cut. She removed her finger from the beetle, which ultimately she could not assist.
"Why must you keep harping on my parents?"
The marbled sky was heartrending, if also adamant, its layers of mauve and rose veined by now with black and indigo. The moon was the pale fossil of a moth.
"Who brought them up?" Mrs Jolley laughed against the rather nasty wind. "I have always had consideration for Somebody's feelings, particularly since Somebody witnessed such a very peculiar death."
Miss Hare was almost turned to stone, amongst the neglected urns and the Diana--_Scuola Canova__--whose hand had been broken off at the wrist.
"Will you, please, leave me?" she asked.
"That is what I have been trying to convey," insisted Mrs Jolley. "No person can be put upon indefinitely. And I have been invited," she said, "or it has been suggested by a friend, who suffers from indifferent health, that I should keep her company."
Miss Hare was gulping like a brown frog. It was not the eventuality that appalled, so much as the method of disclosure, and the shock.
"Then, if you really intend," she mumbled.
Mrs Jolley could have devoured one whom she suspected of a weakness.
"It is not as if you wasn't independent before," she reminded, and smiled. "We could hardly call ourselves Australians--could we?--if we was not independent. There is none of my girls as is not able, at a pinch, to mend a fuse, paint the home, or tackle jobs of carpentry."
Mrs Jolley had assumed that monumental stance of somebody with whom it is impossible to argue.
"Perhaps," Miss Hare answered.
When all was said, she would remain a sandy little girl. Her smiles would weave like shallow water over pebbles.
"So," sighed Mrs Jolley, "there it is. I cannot say any more. Nothing
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