She looked up into the anxious face of her old friend.
She was not quite sure what to say to Dora Bunner.
Bunny, she knew, mustn't be worried or upset.
She was silent for a moment or two, thinking.
She and Dora Bunner had been at school together.
Dora then had been a pretty fair-haired, blue-eyed rather stupid girl.
Her being stupid hadn't mattered, because her gaiety and high spirits and her prettiness had made her an agreeable companion.
She ought, her friend thought, to have married some nice Army officer, or a country solicitor.
She had so many good qualities - affection, devotion, loyalty.
But life had been unkind to Dora Bunner. She had had to earn her living.
She had been painstaking but never competent at anything she undertook.
The two friends had lost sight of each other.
But six months ago a letter had come to Miss Blacklog, a rambling, pathetic letter.
Dora's health had given way.
She was living in one room, trying to subsist on her old age pension.
She endeavoured to do needlework, but her fingers were stiff with rheumatism.
She mentioned their schooldays - since then life had driven them apart - but could - possibly - her old friend help?
Miss Blacklog had responded impulsively.
Poor Dora, poor pretty silly fluffy Dora.
She had swooped down upon Dora, had carried her off, had installed her at Little Paddocks with the comforting fiction that "the housework is getting too much for me. I need someone to help me run the house."
It was not for long - the doctor had told her that - but sometimes she found poor old Dora a sad trial.
She muddled everything, upset the temperamental foreign "help," miscounted the laundry, lost bills and letters - and sometimes reduced the competent Miss Blacklog to an agony of exasperation.
Poor old muddleheaded Dora, so loyal, so anxious to help, so pleased and proud to think she was of assistance - and, alas, so completely unreliable.
She said sharply: "Don't, Dora. You know I asked you -"
"Oh," Miss Bunner looked guilty.
"I know. I forgot.
But - but you are, aren't you?"
"Worried?
No.
At least," she added truthfully, "not exactly.
You mean about that silly notice in the Gazette?"
"Yes - even if it's a joke, it seems to me it's a - a spiteful sort of joke."
"Spiteful?"
"Yes.
It seems to me there's spite there somewhere.
I mean - it's not a nice kind of joke."
Miss Blacklog looked at her friend.
The mild eyes, the long obstinate mouth, the slightly upturned nose.
Poor Dora, so maddening, so muddleheaded, so devoted and such a problem.
A dear fussy old idiot and yet, in a queer way, with an instinctive sense of values.
"I think you're right, Dora," said Miss Blacklog.
"It's not a nice joke."
"I don't like it at all," said Dora Bunner with unsuspected vigour.
"It frightens me." She added, suddenly: "And it frightens you, Letitia."
"Nonsense," said Miss Blacklog with spirit.
"It's dangerous. I'm sure it is. Like those people who send you bombs done up in parcels."
"My dear, it's just some silly idiot trying to be funny."
"But it isn't funny."
It wasn't really very funny... Miss Blacklog's face betrayed her thoughts, and Dora cried triumphantly,
"You see.