They had a nice long practice, and when it was time to go home Lucia detained him.

‘I’ve got one thing to say to you, Georgie,’ she said, ‘though not about that paltry subject. I’ve sold the Hurst, I’ve bought this new property, and so I’ve made a new will. I’ve left Grebe and all it contains to you, and also, well, a little sum of money. I should like you to know that.’

Georgie was much touched.

‘My dear, how wonderful of you,’ he said. ‘But I hope it will be ages and ages before –’

‘So do I, Georgie,’ she said in her most sincere manner.

Tilling had known tensions before and would doubtless know them again. Often it had been on a very agreeable rack of suspense, as when, for instance, it had believed (or striven to believe) that Major Benjy might be fighting a duel with that old crony of his, Captain Puffin, lately deceased. Now there was a suspense of a more intimate quality (for nobody would have cared at all if Captain Puffin had been killed, nor much, if Major Benjy), for it was as if the innermost social guts of Tilling were attached to some relentless windlass, which, at any moment now, might be wound, but not relaxed. The High Street next morning, therefore, was the scene of almost painful excitement. The Wyses’ Royce, with Susan smothered in sables, went up and down, until she was practically certain that she had told everybody that she and Algernon had retired from the hanging committee of the Art Club, pending explanations which they had requested Miss (no longer Elizabeth) Mapp to furnish, but which they had no hope of receiving. Susan was perfectly explicit about the cause of this step, and Algernon who, at a very early hour, had interviewed the errand boy at the frame-shop, was by her side, to corroborate all she said. His high-bred reticence, indeed, had been even more weighty than Susan’s volubility. ‘I am afraid it is all too true,’ was all that could be got out of him. Two hours had now elapsed since their resignations had been sent in, and still no reply had come from Mallards.

But that situation was but an insignificant fraction of the prevalent suspense, for the exhibition had been open and closed months before, and if Tilling was to make a practice of listening to such posthumous revelations, life would cease to have any poignant interest, but be wholly occupied in retrospective retributions. Thrilling therefore as was the past, as revealed by the stern occupants of the Royce, what had happened only yesterday on the doorstep of Mallards was far more engrossing. The story of that, by 11.30 a.m., already contained several remarkable variants. The Padre affirmed that Georgie had essayed to enter Mallards without knocking, and that Miss Mapp (the tendency to call her Miss Mapp was spreading) had seen Lucia in her motor just below the window of the garden-room, and had called out ‘Turn in, Georgino mio, no tarsome chains now that Elizabeth has got back to her own housie-pousie.’ Diva had reason to believe that Elizabeth (she still stuck to that) had not seen Lucia in her motor, and had called out of the window to Georgie ‘Ring the belly-pelly, dear, for I’m afraid the chain is on the door.’ Mrs Bartlett (she was no use at all) said, ‘All so distressing and exciting and Christmas Day next week, and very little good will, oh dear me!’ Irene had said, ‘That old witch will get what for.’