Miss Mole

of man, they could have had good talks by the fire when she took in his tea at ten o’clock. And, perhaps, he was thinking the very same thing, and wishing she were a different kind of woman and more like Miss Patsy Withers, and it seemed to Hannah that Lilla would have been cleverer if she had chosen her watchdog of the breed Mr. Corder admired. The angularity and asperity of Miss Mole simply served to show up the softness and sweetness of the other, but Lilla’s thrifty turn of mind had seized on the opportunity of doing two good deeds in one, supplying Mr. Corder with a housekeeper and sparing herself the inconvenience of having a penniless cousin on her hands. She would have done better to have introduced Patsy herself into the family and let her see what she could make of it. Patsy would probably have found that a hero is more easily worshipped at a distance and Robert Corder would have learnt that flattery does not flavour food, and Hannah saw that the result of this combined ignorance might be as dangerous to her as Mr. Pilgrim, though not so disagreeable, and might be disastrous to Ruth. And Patsy had been at the weeknight service and Mr. Corder had heard something which disturbed him. Now what could that be? Hannah asked herself, tapping her lips with her scissors.

Mr. Corder put his head round the door and Hannah smiled at him as charmingly as she could. When he had disappeared, Ethel came in and fidgeted with the ornaments on the mantelpiece.

“Finished the game?” Hannah asked.

“No, but I have to stay out till they call me in. Miss Mole, don’t you think it’s rather funny about Patsy?”

“Is it? You’re really glad to get rid of her, aren’t you?”

“Yes. But still, I think it’s funny.”

This was as near as Ethel would go to what was on her mind and Hannah would not give her the little push she wanted. “Is she a great friend of yours?” she asked, instead.

“Well, sometimes I think she is and sometimes I think she isn’t. That’s what she’s like.”

“I know. You tell her something and then you wish you hadn’t. Have you ever told her anything about me?”

“Oh, Miss Mole, yes!” Ethel cried, for she was truthful and her deceptions were only for herself. “But only about those mattresses.”

“Well, what else was there to tell?” Hannah asked grimly. “You did all you could, it seems to me. Never mind, never mind! Don’t cry. You cry far too easily and it’s not becoming and they’ll know you’ve been doing it when you go into the other room. Stop it!” Hannah cried.

“But you’ll think I’m a sneak and you’ve been so kind to me lately.”

“I’ll always be kind to you if you’ll let me,” Hannah said.

“It wasn’t that I wanted to tell tales, but I did want to talk to somebody.”

“Then talk to me in future.”

“Did she tell Father?” Ethel asked in a strangled whisper.

“I don’t know.”

“Because, if she did⁠—Oh, there! they’re calling me. I’ll come back next time I’m out.”

Wilfrid changed places with Ethel. “There’s trouble brewing,” he said.

“Man is born to trouble⁠—And poke the fire for me, please.”

“What I like about you, Mona Lisa⁠—”

“Yes, yes, I should love to hear it, but what’s the trouble?”

“What I like about you is your allusive and elusive mind. There you are! The sparks are flying upward. And, of course, there are lots of other things I like.”

“What’s the trouble?” Hannah repeated self-denyingly.

“Revolt’s the trouble. Howard says he’s chucking the ministry and all Mrs. Spenser-Smith’s good gold will be chucked away too. What do you think of that? She sent him to the University to make a high-class little minister of him and he says he won’t be a little minister. He’s just broken the news, and they’re arguing about it now instead of getting on with the game. So we’re going to have a happy Christmas, and I shall go as early as possible to my poor dear mother and stay with her as long as she’ll keep me. He’ll have a hell of a time, but it’s better than having it for life.”

Hannah sighed. “Why do people want to give each other hell?”

“Because it makes them feel like God. And it’s so easy. Now the uncle⁠—”

“Be careful,” Hannah said. “He’s in the hall, getting the letters.”

“Yes, he likes turning over the letters. God, again! He has to know everything. And yet, Mona Lisa, to do the man justice, he’s a benevolent deity in the chapel. But that’s easy, too, when you come to think of it. His people get the reward of their obedience, and so would his children if they’d be what he considers good, which means admiring and believing in papa. Ruth’s quite right. It isn’t good for people to be ministers and there are times when I’m sorry for the poor devil. If you see yourself as the centre of the universe⁠—”

“I should have thought that’s what you do yourself.”

“Yes, but I know I’m doing it. That makes all the difference. Now the uncle⁠—”

“I ought not to be listening to all this,” Hannah said, but she liked having the boy there, sitting on the hearthrug with his back against a chair and his arms hugging his knees. She could pretend that thus her own son would have dealt with her and she with him, while she knew that the very lack of those demands which a mother and son make of each other was what constituted the charm of her relationship with Wilfrid.

“Oh, nonsense,” he said, “you and I are the only reasonable human beings in the house. Howard’s all right, but he’s dull, and depressed, poor lad. Ethel’s trying to make him change his mind and Ruth’s persuading him to keep the bomb until her Uncle Jim arrives.”

“Ruth seems to think her Uncle Jim’s omnipotent,” Hannah said, with the suspicion of a sniff.

“Well, he’ll take part of the shock. It was