In every
physical way a marked contrast to the thin, prim, desiccated brother and
sister.
Richard Morfe flushed faintly. Mary Morfe grew more pallid.
"I really must apologize for coming in like this," said Eva, as she
shook hands cordially with Mary Morfe. She knew Mary very well indeed.
For Mary was the "librarian" of the glee and madrigal club; Mary never
missed a rehearsal, though she cared no more for music than she cared
for the National Debt. She was a perfect librarian, and very good at
unofficially prodding indolent members into a more regular attendance
too.
"Not at all!" said Mary. "We were only reading; you aren't disturbing us
in the least." Which, though polite, was a lie.
And Eva Harracles sat down between them. And brother and sister
abandoned their literature.
"I can't stop," said she, glancing at the clock immediately in front of
her eyes. "I must catch the last car for Silverhays."
"You've got twenty minutes yet," said Mr Morfe.
"Because," said Eva, "I don't want that walk from Turnhill to Silverhays
on a dark night like this."
"No, I should think not, indeed!" said Mary Morfe.
"You've got a full twenty minutes," Mr Morfe repeated.
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