Florence was in one of her haphazard moods. She caught a toe in a corner of
the dining-room carpet when she entered the dining-room with a tray of
custard-glasses, for, in those days, custard was served in glasses which, in
a more free future, would contain Dubonnet or Sherry or Gin and It. The
glasses slid in a clattering avalanche to the floor and spilled broken glass
and dollops of yellow matter upon the carpet. Mr. Marsland, glancing
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irritably over a nervous shoulder, remarked that there would be no mating
of gooseberry tart and custard on this June day.
Florrie had tonsils, and was a mouth-breather. She was a good girl, though
given to lapses, and when she lapsed her language slipped like her
stockings. Mrs. Pomeroy was always saying to her: 'Florence, pull up your
'Coo, oh--lordy, how did I come to do that?'
Mrs. Pomeroy, sitting at the head of her table, answered Florrie's question
with dignity and restraint.
'Just carelessness, Florence, carelessness and too much haste. How often
have I told you not to come into a room with your head in front of your feet.
Get a dustpan and brush and a wet cloth and clean up that mess.'
'Yes'm. I'm sorry, m'm. Fact is--the sole is coming off me shoe.'
'More carelessness, Florence. Get a dustpan and brush and a wet cloth and
clean up that mess.'
Mrs. Pomeroy was serving gooseberry tart. Florence should have distributed
the plates, but since the Kidderminster carpet was Florence's immediate
concern, it being a new one, Mrs. Pomeroy apologised for the disaster, and
asked Mr. Truslove and Miss Popham if they would be so kind as to pass the
plates. Mrs. Pomeroy was always urbane, if formidably so. Rarely was she
seen out of black satin, with a white fichu fastened with an amethyst
brooch. Big, blonde, high-coloured, high-bosomed, a Wellington of a warrior
with a crisp and deliberate voice, she was never out of countenance, and
never in a flurry. It was said that Mrs. Pomeroy had suffered misfortune and
unhappiness in her past. It was not--her--past, but the product of a
disastrous marriage. Mr. Pomeroy was dead, had been decently dead for
years, and his widow held her head high as though refusing to recapture the
unpleasant odour of that self-same past.
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