be suffering tortures of suspense, through which by degrees an idea, painful and revolting in the extreme, yet strangely exhilarating, began to insinuate itself into her mind. There seemed a deadly probability of the correctness of the conjecture, as the week went by without further confirmation of that kiss, for, after all, who knew anything about the character and antecedents of Susan? As for Mr Wyse, was he not a constant visitor to the fierce and fickle south, where, as everyone knew, morality was wholly extinct? And how, if it was all too true, should Tilling treat this hitherto unprecedented situation? It was terrible to contemplate this moral upheaval, which might prove to be a social upheaval also. Time and again, as Miss Mapp vainly waited for news, she was within an ace of communicating her suspicions to the Padre. He ought to know, for Christmas (as was usual in December) was daily drawing nearer . . .
There came some halfway through that month a dark and ominous afternoon, the rain falling sad and thick, and so unusual a density of cloud dwelling in the upper air that by three o'clock Miss Mapp was quite unable, until the street lamp at the corner was lit, to carry out the minor duty of keeping an eye on the houses of Captain Puffin and Major Benjy. The Royce had already lumbered by her door since lunchtime, but so dark was it that, peer as she might, it was lost in the gloom before it came to the dentist's corner, and Miss Mapp had to face the fact that she really did not know whether it had turned into the street where Susan's lover lived or had gone straight on. It was easier to imagine the worst, and she had already pictured to herself a clandestine meeting between those passionate ones, who under cover of this darkness were imperviously concealed from any observation (beneath an umbrella) from her house-roof. Nothing but a powerful searchlight could reveal what was going on in the drawing-room window of Mr Wyse's house, and apart from the fact that she had not got a powerful searchlight, it was strongly improbable that anything of a very intimate nature was going on there . . . it was not likely that they would choose the drawing-room window. She thought of calling on Mr Wyse and asking for the loan of a book, so that she would see whether the sables were in the hall, but even then she would not really be much further on. Even as she considered this a sea-mist began to creep through the street outside, and in a few minutes it was blotted from view. Nothing was visible, and nothing audible but the hissing of the shrouded rain.
Suddenly from close outside came the sound of a door-knocker imperiously plied, which could be no other than her own. Only a telegram or some urgent errand could bring anyone out on such a day, and unable to bear the suspense of waiting till Withers had answered it, she hurried into the house to open the door herself. Was the news of the engagement coming to her at last? Late though it was, she would welcome it even now, for it would atone, in part at any rate . . . It was Diva.
"Diva dear!" said Miss Mapp enthusiastically, for Withers was already in the hall. "How sweet of you to come round. Anything special?"
"Yes," said Diva, opening her eyes very wide, and spreading a shower of moisture as she whisked off her mackintosh. "She's come."
This could not refer to Susan . . .
"Who?" asked Miss Mapp.
"Faradiddleony," said Diva.
"No!" said Miss Mapp very loud, so much interested that she quite forgot to resent Diva's being the first to have the news. "Let's have a comfortable cup of tea in the garden-room. Tea, Withers."
Miss Mapp lit the candles there, for, lost in meditation, she had been sitting in the dark, and with reckless hospitality poked the fire to make it blaze.
"Tell me all about it," she said. That would be a treat for Diva, who was such a gossip.
"Went to the station just now," said Diva. "Wanted a new timetable. Besides the Royce had just gone down. Mr Wyse and Susan on the platform.
"Sables?" asked Miss Mapp parenthetically, to complete the picture.
"Swaddled. Talked to them. Train came in. Woman got out. Kissed Mr Wyse. Shook hands with Susan. Both hands. While luggage was got out."
"Much?" asked Miss Mapp quickly.
"Hundreds. Covered with coronets and Fs. Two cabs."
Miss Mapp's mind, on a hot scent, went back to the previous telegraphic utterance.
"Both hands did you say, dear?" she asked. "Perhaps that's the Italian fashion."
"Maybe. Then what else do you think? Faradiddleony kissed Susan! Mr Wyse and she must be engaged. I can't account for it any other way. He must have written to tell his sister. Couldn't have told her then at the station. Must have been engaged some days and we never knew. They went to look at the orchid. Remember? That was when."
It was bitter, no doubt, but the bitterness could be transmuted into an amazing sweetness.
"Then now I can speak," said Miss Mapp with a sigh of great relief. "Oh, it has been so hard keeping silence, but I felt I ought to. I knew all along, Diva dear, all, all along."
"How?" asked Diva with a fallen crest.
Miss Mapp laughed merrily.
"I looked out of the window, dear, while you went for your hanky and peeped into dining-room and boudoir, didn't you? There they were on the lawn, and they kissed each other. So I said to myself: 'Dear Susan has got him! Perseverance rewarded!' "
"H'm. Only a guess of yours. Or did Susan tell you?"
"No, dear, she said nothing. But Susan was always secretive."
"But they might not have been engaged at all," said Diva with a brightened eye. "Man doesn't always marry a woman he kisses!"
Diva had betrayed the lowness of her mind now by hazarding that which had for days dwelt in Miss Mapp's mind as almost certain. She drew in her breath with a hissing noise as if in pain.
"Darling, what a dreadful suggestion," she said. "No such idea ever occurred to me. Secretive I thought Susan might be, but immoral, never. I must forget you ever thought that. Let's talk about something less painful. Perhaps you would like to tell me more about the Contessa."
Diva had the grace to look ashamed of herself, and to take refuge in the new topic so thoughtfully suggested.
"Couldn't see clearly," she said. "So dark. But tall and lean. Sneezed."
"That might happen to anybody, dear," said Miss Mapp, "whether tall or short. Nothing more?"
"An eyeglass," said Diva after thought.
"A single one?" asked Miss Mapp. "On a string? How strange for a woman."
That seemed positively the last atom of Diva's knowledge, and though Miss Mapp tried on the principles of psychoanalysis to disinter something she had forgotten, the catechism led to no results whatever. But Diva had evidently something else to say, for after finishing her tea she whizzed backwards and forwards from window to fireplace with little grunts and whistles, as was her habit when she was struggling with utterance. Long before it came out, Miss Mapp had, of course, guessed what it was. No wonder Diva found difficulty in speaking of a matter in which she had behaved so deplorably . . .
"About that wretched dress," she said at length. "Got it stained with chocolate first time I wore it, and neither I nor Janet can get it out."
("Hurrah," thought Miss Mapp.)
"Must have it dyed again," continued Diva. "Thought I'd better tell you. Else you might have yours dyed the same colour as mine
