I felt rather remorseful when he had gone for not liking him better. These irrational likes and dislikes that one takes to people are, I am sure, very unChristian.
With a sigh, I realized that the hands of the clock on my writing-table pointed to a quarter to five, a sign that it was really half-past four, and I made my way to the drawing-room.
Four of my parishioners were assembled there with teacups. Griselda sat behind the tea table trying to look natural in her environment, but only succeeded in looking more out of place than usual.
I shook hands all round and sat down between Miss Marple and Miss Wetherby.
Miss Marple is a white-haired old lady with a gentle, appealing manner—Miss Wetherby is a mixture of vinegar and gush. Of the two Miss Marple is much the more dangerous.
“We were just talking,” said Griselda in a honeysweet voice, “about Dr. Stone and Miss Cram.”
A ribald rhyme concocted by Dennis shot through my head.
“Miss Cram doesn’t give a damn.”
I had a sudden yearning to say it out loud and observe the effect, but fortunately I refrained. Miss Wetherby said tersely:
“No nice girl would do it,” and shut her thin lips disapprovingly.
“Do what?” I inquired.
“Be a secretary to an unmarried man,” said Miss Wetherby in a horrified tone.