Now when everybody was served with mussels, cockles, tea, and
toast, and Mr. Povey had been persuaded to cut the crust off his
toast, and Constance had, quite unnecessarily, warned Sophia
against the deadly green stuff in the mussels, and Constance had
further pointed out that the evenings were getting longer, and Mr.
Povey had agreed that they were, there remained nothing to say. An
irksome silence fell on them all, and no one could lift it off.
Tiny clashes of shell and crockery sounded with the terrible
clearness of noises heard in the night. Each person avoided the
eyes of the others. And both Constance and Sophia kept
straightening their bodies at intervals, and expanding their
chests, and then looking at their plates; occasionally a prim
cough was discharged. It was a sad example of the difference
between young women's dreams of social brilliance and the reality
of life. These girls got more and more girlish, until, from being
women at the administering of laudanum, they sank back to about
eight years of age--perfect children--at the tea-table.

The tension was snapped by Mr. Povey. "My God!" he muttered, moved
by a startling discovery to this impious and disgraceful oath (he,
the pattern and exemplar--and in the presence of innocent girlhood
too!). "I've swallowed it!"

"Swallowed what, Mr. Povey?" Constance inquired.

The tip of Mr. Povey's tongue made a careful voyage of inspection
all round the right side of his mouth.

"Oh yes!" he said, as if solemnly accepting the inevitable. "I've