She could not conceive in what
ignominy the dreadful affair would end, but she was the kind of woman
that nails her colours to the mast.
"Dear me!" Mrs Clayton Vernon murmured. "How delicious those potatoes do
smell! I can smell them all over the house."
This was the most staggering remark that Mrs Swann had ever heard.
"Potatoes? very weakly.
"Yes," said Mrs Clayton Vernon, smiling. "I must tell you that Mr
Millwain is very nervous about getting his hands cold in driving to
Hanbridge. And he has asked me to have hot potatoes prepared. Isn't it
amusing? It seems hot potatoes are constantly used for this purpose in
winter by the pupils of the Royal College of Music, and even by the
professors. My cousin says that even a slight chilliness of the hands
interferes with his playing. So I am having potatoes done for your son
too. A delightful boy he is!"
"Really!" said Mrs Swann. "How queer! But what a good idea!"
She might have confessed then. But you do not know her if you think she
did. Gilbert came in, anxious and alarmed. Mrs Clayton Vernon left them
together. The mother explained matters to the son, and in an instant of
time the ruin of two magnificent potatoes was at the back of the fire.
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