‘Porridge burned, I expect,’ said Miss Mapp, thoughtfully, ‘though I couldn’t say for certain. Morning, dear Irene. Another artist is coming to Tilling for August and September.’

‘Hoot awa’, woman,’ said Irene, in recognition of the Padre’s presence. ‘I ken that fine, for Mistress Wyse told me half an hour agone.’

‘But he’ll be away for a week, though of course you know that, too,’ said Miss Mapp, slightly nettled. ‘Acting Francis Drake in a fête at Riseholme.’

Diva trundled up.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard, Elizabeth,’ she said in a great hurry, ‘that Mr Pillson has taken Mallards Cottage.’

Miss Mapp smiled pityingly.

‘Quite correct, dear Diva,’ she said. ‘Mr Pillson told me himself hours ago. He’s sketching the Landgate now – a sweet picky – and insisted that I should sit down and chat to him while he worked.’

‘Lor! How you draw them all in, Mapp,’ said quaint Irene. ‘He looks a promising young man for his age, but it’s time he had his hair dyed again. Grey at the roots.’

The Padre tore himself away; he had to hurry home and tell wee wifie.

‘Aweel, I mustn’t stand daffing here,’ he said, ‘I’ve got my sermon to think on.’