The face disappeared with a jerk. I could hear voices. The face reappeared.

“Hi!”

I churned the gravel madly. This blighter was giving me the pip.

“Do you live here?” asked the face.

“I have taken a cottage here for a few weeks.”

“What’s your name?”

“Wooster.”

“Fancy that! Do you spell it W-o-r-c-e-s-t-e-r or W-o-o-s-t-e-r?”

“W-o-o⁠—”

“I ask because I once knew a Miss Wooster, spelled W-o-o⁠—”