‘Never was able to express himself,’ she said. ‘Fatal in a parson.’

On another occasion Miss Docker rang, and was answered by some young person she failed completely to identify.

‘Is it the night for Bible class?’ Miss Docker inquired.

‘No, it is not, Miss Docker,’ the young girl’s voice replied.

‘Oh. Then I was not out in my calculations. Though if I was, I would still have time to toddle down.’

The silence on the phone remained the silence of a second person.

‘Who is that?’ Miss Docker asked, flat out. ‘Is it Charmae? Or Glenyse?’

The truth was: she was dying to know.

But the young person hung up.

‘Some young girls are that uncivil,’ Miss Docker complained to the Chinese ladies. ‘It was only sociable to inquire. But at least Bible class is not tonight.’

‘Oh, but Mrs Woolnough and Miss Perry,’ Mrs Hibble insisted, ‘left for the rectory immediately on finishing their tea.’

‘Without telling?’

Miss Docker could not believe.

When Mrs Woolnough and Miss Perry returned later from Bible class, they were ever so refreshed and meek.

‘I hope you enjoyed it,’ Miss Docker reproved. ‘Were there many? Was there some young girl?’

‘There were several,’ said Miss Perry.

‘But the one who answered me on the phone?’

‘I cannot think,’ said Mrs Woolnough.

‘Did you have the savoury boats?’ Miss Docker asked.

Yes, Mrs Wakeman had handed, round savoury boats, after-wards, with a pot of tea.

Wednesday evenings there was choir practice.

‘Have you given up the choir?’ Mrs Hibble asked.

‘I haven’t given up the choir,’ Miss Docker confessed, ’the choir has given up me. To be more exact, there is now no choir at all. It is those women,’ she said. ‘That Miss Scougall is a ball of ego. Called herself a choir-mistress, too. Of course, when she walked out, Mrs Knight – she was the organ – could only follow suit, depending as she did for a lift in her sister’s Austin. So we are disbanded.’

Mrs Hibble realized the situation was a tragic one, though Miss Docker appeared to be absorbed in sorting stamps for her collection. She sat munching her gums, since it was past the hour when she took out her teeth. For comfort’s sake, she would explain again.

‘Oh, but I shall sing,’ she suddenly announced. ‘How I shall sing! I shall be the whole choir. Nothing should prevent you praising God. Now, should it?’

Mrs Hibble refrained from comment, because Miss Docker was a, not to say the, pillar of the church. Devoted to the rector, too.

Miss Docker went to the rectory Thursdays to mow Mr Wakeman’s lawn. As a labour of love.

‘It is Miss Docker’s day,’ Mrs Wakeman always remembered.

Miss Docker did not care for Mrs Wakeman ever since the latter accused her of pruning Crimson Glory to death.

‘I only did it as a gesture,’ Miss Docker had defended herself, ‘and nobody knows for certain the rose did not die a natural death.’