in the "hustle," but her pangs prevented her
from caring much.

"Meet you then," she said. "Shall be all comfortable then. Au----"

This was more than could be borne, and Miss Mapp hastily interrupted.

"Au reservoir, Diva dear," she said with extreme acerbity, and Diva's
feet began swiftly revolving again.

The problem about the bridge-party thus seemed to be solved. The two
Poppits, the two Bartletts, the Major and the Captain with Diva darling
and herself made eight, and Miss Mapp with a sudden recrudescence of
indignation against Isabel with regard to the red-currant fool and the
belated invitation, made up her mind that she would not be able to
squeeze it in, thus leaving the party one short. Even apart from the
red-currant fool it served the Poppits right for not asking her
originally, but only when, as seemed now perfectly clear, somebody else
had disappointed them. But just as she emerged from the butcher's shop,
having gained a complete victory in the matter of that suet, without
expending the last breath in her body or anything like it, the whole of
the seemingly solid structure came toppling to the ground. For on
emerging, flushed with triumph, leaving the baffled butcher to try his
tricks on somebody else if he chose but not on Miss Mapp, she ran
straight into the Disgrace of Tilling and her sex, the suffragette,
post-impressionist artist (who painted from the nude, both male and
female), the socialist and the Germanophil, all incarnate in one frame.
In spite of these execrable antecedents, it was quite in vain that Miss
Mapp had tried to poison the collective mind of Tilling against this
Creature. If she hated anybody, and she undoubtedly did, she hated Irene
Coles. The bitterest part of it all was that if Miss Coles was amused at
anybody, and she undoubtedly was, she was amused at Miss Mapp.

Miss Coles was strolling along in the attire to which Tilling generally
had got accustomed, but Miss Mapp never. She had an old wide-awake hat
jammed down on her head, a tall collar and stock, a large loose coat,
knickerbockers and grey stockings. In her mouth was a cigarette, in her
hand she swung the orthodox wicker-basket. She had certainly been to the
other fishmonger's at the end of the High Street, for a lobster, revived
perhaps after a sojourn on the ice, by this warm sun, which the
butterflies and the swallows had been rejoicing in, was climbing with
claws and waving legs over the edge of it.

Irene rem