‘Spiteful?’

‘Yes. It seems to me there’sspite there somewhere. I mean-it’s not anice kind of joke.’

Miss Blacklock looked at her friend. The mild eyes, the long obstinate mouth, the slightly upturned nose. Poor Dora, so maddening, so muddle-headed, so devoted and such a problem. A dear fussy old idiot and yet, in a queer way, with an instinctive sense of value.

‘I think you’re right, Dora,’ said Miss Blacklock. ‘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 frightensyou, Letitia.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Miss Blacklock with spirit.

‘It’sdangerous. 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 itisn’t funny.’

It wasn’t really very funny…Miss Blacklock’s face betrayed her thoughts, and Dora cried triumphantly, ‘You see. You think so, too!’

‘But Dora, my dear-’

She broke off. Through the door there surged a tempestuous young woman with a well-developed bosom heaving under a tight jersey. She had on a dirndl skirt of a bright colour and had greasy dark plaits wound round and round her head. Her eyes were dark and flashing.

She said gustily:

‘I can speak to you, yes, please, no?’

Miss Blacklock sighed.

‘Of course, Mitzi, what is it?’

Sometimes she thought it would be preferable to do the entire work of the house as well as the cooking rather than be bothered with the eternal nerve storms of her refugee ‘lady help’.

‘I tell you at once-it is in order, I hope? I give you my notices and Igo -I go atonce!’

‘For what reason? Has somebody upset you?’

‘Yes, I am upset,’ said Mitzi dramatically. ‘I do not wish to die! Already in Europe I escape. My family they all die-they are all killed-my mother, my little brother, my so sweet little niece-all, all they are killed. But me I run away-I hide. I get to England. I work. I do work that never-never would I do in my own country-I-’