“But her solemn assertion—” began Mrs. Poppit, thinking that she was being a complete failure as an ambassador. She was carrying no conviction at all.
“Saccharine!” observed Diva, handing her a small phial. “Haven’t got more than enough sugar for myself. I expect Elizabeth’s got plenty—well, never mind that. Don’t you see? If it wasn’t true she would try to convince us that it was. Seemed absurd on the face of it. But if she tries to convince us that it isn’t true—well, something in it.”
There was the gist of the matter, and Mrs. Poppit proceeding next to the Padre’s house, found more muffins and incredulity. Nobody seemed to believe Elizabeth’s assertion that there was “nothing in it.” Evie ran round the room with excited squeaks, the Padre nodded his head, in confirmation of the opinion which, when he first delivered it, had been received with mocking incredulity over the crab. Quaint Irene, intent on Mr. Hopkins’s left knee in the absence of the model, said, “Good old Mapp: better late than never.” Utter incredulity, in fact, was the ambassador’s welcome... and all the incredulous were going to Elizabeth’s party on Wednesday.
Mrs. Poppit had sent the Royce home for the last of her calls, and staggered up the hill past Elizabeth’s house. Oddly enough, just as she passed the garden-room, the window was thrown up.
“Cup of tea, dear Susan?” said Elizabeth. She had found an old note of Mrs. 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
