not he always returned the invitation by one to a Thursday
luncheon-party, and thus the high circles of Tilling met every week at
his house.

Miss Mapp came to the end of this brief retrospect, and determined, when
once it was proved that Mr. Wyse had arrived, to ask him to tea on
Tuesday. That would mean lunch with him on Thursday, and it was
unnecessary to ask anybody else unless Mr. Wyse accepted. If he refused,
there would be no tea-party.... But, after the events of the last
twenty-four hours, there was no vividness in these plans and
reminiscences, and her eye turned to the profile of the Colonel's house.

"The portmanteau," she said to herself.... No: she must take her mind
off that subject. She would go for a walk, not into the High Street, but
into the quiet level country, away from the turmoil of passion (in the
Padre's sense) and quarrels (in her own), where she could cool her
curiosity and her soul with contemplation of the swallows and the white
butterflies (if they had not all been killed by the touch of frost last
night) and the autumn tints of which there were none whatever in the
treeless marsh.... Decidedly the shortest way out of the town was that
which led past Mr. Wyse's house. But before leaving the garden-room she
practised several faces at the looking-glass opposite the door, which
should suitably express, if she met anybody to whom the cause of the
challenge was likely to have spread, the bewildering emotion which the
unwilling cause of it must feel. There must be a wistful wonder, there
must be a certain pride, there must be the remains of romantic
excitement, and there must be deep womanly anxiety. The carriage of the
head "did" the pride, the wide-open eyes "did" the wistful wonder and
the romance, the deep womanly anxiety lurked in the tremulous smile, and
a violent rubbing of the cheeks produced the colour of excitement. In
answer to any impertinent questions, if she encountered such, she meant
to give an absent answer, as if she had not understood. Thus equipped
she set forth.

It was rather disappointing to meet nobody, but as she passed Mr. Wyse's
bow-window she adjusted the chrysanthemums she wore, and she had a good
sight of his profile and the back of Mrs. Poppit's head. They appeared
deep in conversation, and Miss Mapp felt that the tiresome woman was
probably giving him a very incomplete account of what had happened. She
returned late for tea, and broke off her apologies to Wither