"Why, Grace...I don't know.I never noticed it wasn't there.""I took it down," said Maggie."I thought there were too many photographs.It's in the attic.""In the attic?...Fancy! You put it away, did you, Maggie? Well, fancy! Shan't I make the tea, Maggie, dear? That tea-pot, it's an old friend of mine.I know how to manage it."They changed seats.Grace was as amiable as ever, but now her eyes flashed about from place to place all around the room.
"Why, this is a new kind of jam.How nice! As I was saying, I got into Charing Cross and there wasn't a porter.Just fancy! At least there was a porter, an old man, but when I beckoned to him he wouldn't move.Well, I was angry.I can tell you, Paul, I wasn't going to stand that, so I-what nice jam, dear.I never knew Mitchell's had jam like this!""I didn't get it at Mitchell's," said Maggie."I've changed the grocer.Mitchell hasn't got anything, and his prices are just about double Brownjohn's...""Brownjohn!" Grace stared, her bread and jam suspended."Brownjohn!
But, Maggie dear, he's a dissenter."
"Oh.Maggie!" said Paul."You should have told me!""Why!" said Maggie, bewildered."Father never minded about dissenters.Our butcher in St.Dreot's was an atheist and--""Well, well," said Grace, her eyes still flashing about like goldfish in a pool."You didn't know, dear.Of course you didn't.
I'm sure we can put it right with Mitchell, although he's a sensitive man.I'll go and see him in the morning.I am glad I'm back.Well, I was telling you...Where was I?...about the porter--"Something drove Maggie to say:
"I'd rather have a good grocer who's a dissenter than a bad one who goes to church--""Maggie," said Paul, "you don't know what you're saying.You don't realise what the effect in the parish would be.""Of course she doesn't," said Grace consolingly."She'll understand in time.As I was saying, I was so angry that I caught the old man by the arm and I said to him, 'If you think you're paid to lean up against a wall and not do your duty you're mightily mistaken, and if you aren't careful I'll report you--that's what I'll do,' and he said--what were his exact words? I'll remember in a minute.I know he was very insulting, and the taxi-cabman--why, Paul, where's mother's picture?"Grace's eyes were directed to a large space high above the mantelpiece.Maggie remembered that there had been a big faded oil-painting of an old lady in a shawl and spectacles, a hideous affair she had thought it.That was now reposing in the attic.Why had she not known that it was a picture of Paul's mother? She would never have touched it had she known.Why had Paul said nothing? He had not even noticed that it was gone.
Paul stared, amazed and certainly--yes, beyond question--frightened.
"Grace--upon my word--I've been so busy since my return--""Is that also in the attic?" asked Grace.
"Yes, it is," said Maggie."I'm so sorry.I never knew it was your mother.It wasn't a very good painting I thought, so I took it down.
If I had known, of course, I never would have touched it.Oh Grace, I AM so sorry.""It's been there," said Grace, "for nearly twenty years.What I mean to say is that it's always been there.Poor mother.Are there many things in the attic, Maggie?"At that moment there was a feeble scratching on the door.Paul, evidently glad of anything that would relieve the situation, opened the door.
"Why, it's Mitch!" cried Grace, forgetting for the moment her mother."Fancy! It's Mitch! Mitch, dear! Was she glad to see her old friend back again? Was she? Darling! Fancy seeing her old friend again? Was she wanting her back?"Mitch stood shivering in the doorway, then, with her halting step, the skin of her back wrinkled with anxiety, she crossed the room.
For a moment she hesitated, then with shamefaced terror, slunk to Maggie, pressed up against her, and sat there huddled, staring at Grace with yellow unfriendly eyes.
