"Ought to be publicly burned! As
if it weren't enough to find the beastly things all over the Club, without
being pestered with them at home, making fun of the best people in Mudford.
Bolshevism! Fellow ought to be shot! Wish I knew who he was and I'd do it
myself. I _will not_ have another word of this poisonous stuff in my house.
D'you hear, Gertrude?"
Mrs. Martin trailed into the hall in search of her sunshade.
"It's so difficult," she complained _en route_, "to know what paper he's
coming out in next and stop it in time;" and she wandered mournfully into
the garden.
"Mary," she sighed, sinking into a chair on the lawn, "have you noticed
anything peculiar in the way people speak to us lately? Of course it may be
only my imagination, and yet," she hesitated, "Admiral and Lady Rogers were
quite--quite formal to me yesterday."
Mary balanced her tennis racquet on her outstretched hand and laughed.
"It's the local Blight, I suppose. You and Father are about the only people
left who haven't been withered yet, and the others are bound to think
there's something suspicious about you. Stupid of me--I didn't think of
that. I'm sorry."
Her mother started. "What do you mean?" she inquired sharply.
Mary rose languidly. "However," she added graciously, "I will put that
right for you next week. I have several sketches that will do."
Mrs. Martin's face registered inquiry, incredulity, indignation and
apoplexy in chronological order; then the garden gate clicked and a young
man walked across the lawn.
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