I know how to manage it."
They changed seats. Grace was as amiable as ever, but now her eyes
flashed about from place to place all around the room.
"Why, this is a new kind of jam. How nice! As I was saying, I got
into Charing Cross and there wasn't a porter. Just fancy! At least
there was a porter, an old man, but when I beckoned to him he
wouldn't move. Well, I was angry. I can tell you, Paul, I wasn't
going to stand that, so I-what nice jam, dear. I never knew
Mitchell's had jam like this!"
"I didn't get it at Mitchell's," said Maggie. "I've changed the
grocer. Mitchell hasn't got anything, and his prices are just about
double Brownjohn's . . ."
"Brownjohn!" Grace stared, her bread and jam suspended. "Brownjohn!
But, Maggie dear, he's a dissenter."
"Oh. Maggie!" said Paul. "You should have told me!"
"Why!" said Maggie, bewildered. "Father never minded about
dissenters. Our butcher in St. Dreot's was an atheist and--"
"Well, well," said Grace, her eyes still flashing about like
goldfish in a pool. "You didn't know, dear. Of course you didn't.
I'm sure we can put it right with Mitchell, although he's a
sensitive man.
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