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Updated: June 7, 2025
In answer to any impertinent questions, if she encountered such, she meant to give an absent answer, as if she had not understood. Thus equipped she set forth. It was rather disappointing to meet nobody, but as she passed Mr. Wyse's bow-window she adjusted the chrysanthemums she wore, and she had a good sight of his profile and the back of Mrs. Poppit's head.
Poppit's among the waste paper for the firing of the kitchen oven fully signed. "Just two minutes' talk, Elizabeth," she promptly responded. The news that nobody in Tilling believed her left Miss Mapp more than calm, on the bright side of calm, that is to say.
Poppit's guests, rendering them, like incomplete Marconi installations, capable of receiving, but not of transmitting. Poppit from exposing herself further. The rest of them, Mrs. Poppit implied, might do what they liked, for they did not matter; but she she must put on her Order and make her curtsy.
She stood looking out of the window for a moment, writhing with humiliation at having to be suppliant to the Member of the British Empire. She tried to remember Mrs. Poppit's Christian name, and was even prepared to use that, but this crowning ignominy was saved her, as she could not recollect it. "Such an annoying thing has happened," she said, though the words seemed to blister her lips.
Poppit's garden, so revolting was the sycophantic loyalty of the newly-decorated Member of the British Empire.... She described minutely her arrival at the Palace, her momentary nervousness as she entered the Throne-room, the instantaneousness with which that all vanished when she came face to face with her Sovereign.
That would be awkward since she had publicly paraded her reconciliation with him. What further inclined her to clemency, was that this very evening the crimson-lake tea-gown would shed its effulgence over Mrs. Poppit's bridge-party, and Diva would never want to hear the word "kingfisher" again. That was enough to put anybody in a good temper.
Miss Poppit came up the street and Miss Mapp put up her illustrated paper again, with the revolting picture of the Brighton sea-nymphs turned towards the window. Peeping out behind it, she observed that Miss Poppit's basket was apparently oozing with bright venous blood, and felt certain that she had bought red currants. That, coupled with the ice, made conjecture complete.
"Pleasantest room in Tilling, I always say, Miss Elizabeth," said he, diverting his mind from a mere game to the fairies. "My dear little room," said Miss Mapp, knowing that it was much larger than anything in Mrs. Poppit's house. "So tiny!" "Oh, not a bad-sized little room," said Mrs. Poppit encouragingly.
She rang the bell, and gave a sample of her generous oblivion. "And we meet, do we not, this evening at Mrs. Poppit's?" she said, looking not at him, but about a foot above his head. "Such pleasant evenings one always has there, I hope it will not be a wet evening, but the glass is sadly down. Oh, Withers, Captain Puffin is going. Good morning, Captain Puffin. Such a pleasure!"
Some of the dear friends she thought must be centenarians. "Your wistaria wants pruning sadly," she said. "Your gardener does not understand wistarias. That corner there was made, I may say, for fuchsias. You should get a dozen choice fuchsias." Miss Mapp laughed. "Oh, you must excuse me," she said with a glance at Mrs. Poppit's brocaded silk. "I can't bear fuchsias.
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