Mr. Ziegler left nothing to be said.

Then the conversation sighed and really did expire.  It might have survived had not the Spatts had a rule, explained previously to those whom it concerned, against talking shop.  Their attachment to this rule was heroic.  In the present instance shop was suffragism.  The Spatts had developed into supporters of militancy in a very curious way.  Mrs. Spatt’s sister, a widow, had been mixed up with the Union for years.  One day she was fined forty shillings or a week’s imprisonment for a political peccadillo involving a hatpin and a policeman.  It was useless for her to remind the magistrate that she, like Mrs. Spatt, was the daughter of the celebrated statesman B——­, who in the fifties had done so much for Britain. (Lo!  The source of that mysterious confidence that always supported Mrs. Spatt!) The magistrate had no historic sense.  She went to prison.  At least she was on the way thither when Mr. Spatt paid the fine in spite of her.  The same night Mr. Spatt wrote to his favourite evening paper to point out the despicable ingratitude of a country which would have imprisoned a daughter of the celebrated B——­, and announced that henceforward he would be an active supporter of suffragism, which hitherto had interested him only academically.  He was a wealthy man, and his money and his house and his pen were at the service of the Union—­but always with discretion.

Audrey and Jane Foley had learnt all this privately from Mrs. Spatt on their arrival, after they had told such part of their tale as Jane Foley had deemed suitable, and they had further learnt that suffragism would not be a welcome topic at their table, partly on account of the servants and partly on account of Mr. Ziegler, whose opinions were quite clearly opposed to the movement, but whom they admired for true and rare culture.  He was a cousin of German residents in First Avenue and, visiting them often, had been discovered by Mr. Spatt in the afternoon-tea train.

And just as the ices came to compete with the night wind, the postman arrived like a deliverer.  The postman had to pass the dining-room en route by the circuitous drive to the front door, and when dinner was afoot he would hand the letters to the parlourmaid, who would divide them into two portions, and, putting both on a salver, offer the salver first to Mrs. and then to Mr. Spatt, while Mr. or Mrs. Spatt begged guests, if there were any, to excuse the quaint and indeed unusual custom, pardonable only on the plea that any tidings from London ought to be savoured instantly in such a place as Frinton.

After leaving his little pile untouched for some time, Mr. Spatt took advantage of the diversion caused by the brushing of the cloth and the distribution of finger-bowls to glance at the topmost letter, which was addressed in a woman’s hand.

“She’s coming!” he exclaimed, forgetting to apologise in the sudden excitement of news, “Good heavens!” He looked at his watch.  “She’s here.  I heard the train several minutes ago!  She must be here!  The letter’s been delayed.”