“I met him yesterday,” replied Mavis.

“Do you mean that you were introduced to him?” asked Miss Hunter calmly.

“There was no occasion.  I knew him when I was a girl.”

“I can’t say I knew him when I was a girl,” retorted Miss Hunter.  “But I know this much:  he never goes to church.”

“What of that?” snapped Miss Toombs.

Miss Hunter looked at the eldest present, astonished.

“Is that you talking?” she asked.

“Why, what did I say?”

“You spoke as if it were a matter of no consequence, a man not going to church.”

“I can’t have been thinking what I said,” remarked Miss Toombs, as she put aside her teacup to go on with her work.

“I thought not,” retorted Miss Hunter.

“You haven’t told me very much about him,” said Mavis.

“I’ve never heard much good of him,” declared Miss Hunter.

“Men are scarcely expected to be paragons,” said Mavis.

“When he was last at home, he was often about with Sir Archibald Windebank.”

“I know him too,” declared Mavis.

“Nonsense!”

“Why shouldn’t I?  His father was my father’s oldest friend.”

Miss Hunter winced; she stared fixedly at Mavis, with eyes in which admiration and envy were expressed.  Later, when Mavis was leaving for the day, Miss Hunter fussed about her with many assurances of regard.

To Mavis’s surprise, Miss Toombs joined her outside the factory—­ surprise, because the elder woman rarely spoke to her, seeming to avoid rather than cultivate her acquaintance.

“I can say here what I can’t say before that little cat,” remarked Miss Toombs.

Mavis stared at the plainly clad, stumpy little figure in astonishment.

“I mean it,” continued Miss Toombs.  “She’s a designing little hypocrite.  I know you’re too good a sort to give me away.”

“I didn’t know you liked me well enough to confide in me,” remarked Mavis.

“I don’t like you.”

“Why not?” asked Mavis, surprised at the other woman’s candour.

“Look at you!” cried Miss Toombs savagely, as she turned away from Mavis.  “But what I was also going to say was this:  don’t have too much to do with young Perigal.”

“I’m not likely to.”

“Don’t, all the same.  You’re much too good for him.”

“Why?  Is he fast?” asked Mavis.

“It wouldn’t matter if he were.  But he is what some people call a ‘waster.’”

“He admits that himself.”

“He’s a pretty boy.  But I don’t think he’s the man to make a woman happy, unless—­”

“Unless what?”

“She despised him or knocked him about.”

“I won’t forget,” laughed Mavis.

“Good day.”

“Won’t you come home to tea?”

“No, thanks,” said Miss Toombs, as she made off, to leave Mavis gazing at the ill-dressed, squat figure hurrying along the road.