sparse gray eyebrows. “Oh, dear.”
“Oh, yes,” Grace said in a dry tone. “I must say, he became quite unpleasant. There was a house agent with him, a Mr. Spry, from Kendal. Mr. Roberts has apparently engaged him to sell Anvil Cottage. He said he expects to dispose of it quickly.”
“You didn’t give him the key, I hope,” Dimity said anxiously, thinking that this was something Miles ought to hear. He might want to tell Miss Tolliver’s solicitor.
“Of course not,” Grace replied. She smiled. “I don’t know whether I should repeat this, but Miss Potter remarked that Mr. Roberts looked like a rooster. Very apt, I thought.” Rose Sutton giggled, Margaret Nash laughed out loud, and the vicar chuckled.
Miss Crabbe, as might be expected, was not amused. “That’s the trouble with political women,” she said, with a disapproving harrumph . “They are much too quick with their criticism. And the Socialists are quite the worst of the lot. Nothing seems to suit them.”
“Miss Crabbe,” said the vicar diplomatically, “Miss Potter is not a political person, but an artist, and quite well known. She writes and illustrates children’s stories.” He held up a copy of The Pie and the Patty-Pan. “This is her latest. It appeared just last week.”
“Well, I do hope she keeps Socialism out of her books.” Miss Crabbe lowered her chin and peered at the vicar over the tops of her gold spectacles as if he were one of her juniors. “Especially if she’s going to suggest that people are like animals. What sort of example does that set for the children?”
“I’m afraid I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” Grace said, with an apologetic glance at Dimity.
The doorbell rang again, and a moment later, Elsa opened the door with a flourish and announced, “Miss Potter and Mrs. Crook.” To Dimity, who was mentally tallying up the numbers, she confided, “I’ll bring more china straightaway, ma’am, and another kettle of hot water.”
Dimity hurried to greet the guest of honor, but Mathilda Crook put herself forward. “I told Miss Potter that tha’d likely be having several to tea,” she said energetically, “and tha wudn’t mind if I popped in for just a minute. T’ more t’ merrier, as my old mother used to say. In Sawrey, we nivver stand on sermons.” She glanced around the crowded little room. “Just look, Miss Potter, at t’ girt gang o’ folk! How nice of ivverboddy to come!” Having cast herself in the role of the gracious hostess, Mrs. Crook went to the tea table and took the last cup.
The next few moments were filled with the sort of confused hubbub that attends the arrival of a celebrated guest. In this case, however, the guest was shy and hung back by the door, looking as if she wanted to make her escape as soon as possible. But finally she was lured to a chair beside the fire, introductions were managed, Elsa produced another cup and saucer and the kettle, and Dimity handed the last of the cakes around. Rose Sutton thanked Miss Potter for the book her little Lizzy had received, Margaret Nash reported that Clara Jennings had told her schoolmates that Miss Potter had given her cat the enchanting name of Miss Felicia Frummety, and the vicar asked Miss Potter to sign his niece’s copy of The Pie and the Patty-Pan, which apparently its author had not yet seen.
“The amount of detail in your pictures is nothing short of miraculous,” the vicar said admiringly, when Miss Potter had written an inscription on the flyleaf. He opened the book to the third page. “This drawing of the post office door, for instance. It’s exactly like, down to the very detail in the fanlight.”
“But tha’s put Lydia Dowling’s tiger lilies along t’ post office path!” Mathilda Crook exclaimed in a horrified tone, peering over Miss Potter’s right shoulder. “And tha’s drawn them much too tall. Why, they’re as tall as t’ post office door!”
Miss Potter seemed abashed by the criticism.
“Oh, yes,” Grace said in a dry tone. “I must say, he became quite unpleasant. There was a house agent with him, a Mr. Spry, from Kendal. Mr. Roberts has apparently engaged him to sell Anvil Cottage. He said he expects to dispose of it quickly.”
“You didn’t give him the key, I hope,” Dimity said anxiously, thinking that this was something Miles ought to hear. He might want to tell Miss Tolliver’s solicitor.
“Of course not,” Grace replied. She smiled. “I don’t know whether I should repeat this, but Miss Potter remarked that Mr. Roberts looked like a rooster. Very apt, I thought.” Rose Sutton giggled, Margaret Nash laughed out loud, and the vicar chuckled.
Miss Crabbe, as might be expected, was not amused. “That’s the trouble with political women,” she said, with a disapproving harrumph . “They are much too quick with their criticism. And the Socialists are quite the worst of the lot. Nothing seems to suit them.”
“Miss Crabbe,” said the vicar diplomatically, “Miss Potter is not a political person, but an artist, and quite well known. She writes and illustrates children’s stories.” He held up a copy of The Pie and the Patty-Pan. “This is her latest. It appeared just last week.”
“Well, I do hope she keeps Socialism out of her books.” Miss Crabbe lowered her chin and peered at the vicar over the tops of her gold spectacles as if he were one of her juniors. “Especially if she’s going to suggest that people are like animals. What sort of example does that set for the children?”
“I’m afraid I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” Grace said, with an apologetic glance at Dimity.
The doorbell rang again, and a moment later, Elsa opened the door with a flourish and announced, “Miss Potter and Mrs. Crook.” To Dimity, who was mentally tallying up the numbers, she confided, “I’ll bring more china straightaway, ma’am, and another kettle of hot water.”
Dimity hurried to greet the guest of honor, but Mathilda Crook put herself forward. “I told Miss Potter that tha’d likely be having several to tea,” she said energetically, “and tha wudn’t mind if I popped in for just a minute. T’ more t’ merrier, as my old mother used to say. In Sawrey, we nivver stand on sermons.” She glanced around the crowded little room. “Just look, Miss Potter, at t’ girt gang o’ folk! How nice of ivverboddy to come!” Having cast herself in the role of the gracious hostess, Mrs. Crook went to the tea table and took the last cup.
The next few moments were filled with the sort of confused hubbub that attends the arrival of a celebrated guest. In this case, however, the guest was shy and hung back by the door, looking as if she wanted to make her escape as soon as possible. But finally she was lured to a chair beside the fire, introductions were managed, Elsa produced another cup and saucer and the kettle, and Dimity handed the last of the cakes around. Rose Sutton thanked Miss Potter for the book her little Lizzy had received, Margaret Nash reported that Clara Jennings had told her schoolmates that Miss Potter had given her cat the enchanting name of Miss Felicia Frummety, and the vicar asked Miss Potter to sign his niece’s copy of The Pie and the Patty-Pan, which apparently its author had not yet seen.
“The amount of detail in your pictures is nothing short of miraculous,” the vicar said admiringly, when Miss Potter had written an inscription on the flyleaf. He opened the book to the third page. “This drawing of the post office door, for instance. It’s exactly like, down to the very detail in the fanlight.”
“But tha’s put Lydia Dowling’s tiger lilies along t’ post office path!” Mathilda Crook exclaimed in a horrified tone, peering over Miss Potter’s right shoulder. “And tha’s drawn them much too tall. Why, they’re as tall as t’ post office door!”
Miss Potter seemed abashed by the criticism.
Similar Books
