CHAPTER 4It was two or three days later that Frank Abbott, off duty for the evening and very comfortable in one of Miss Maud Silver’s Victorian chairs with the bright blue covers and the curly walnut legs, looked across at her knitting placidly on the other side of the hearth and broke off his narrative to remark,
“It’s right up your street, you know. What a pity you couldn’t have been there.”
Miss Silver’s needles clicked. An infant vest revolved. She coughed slightly and said,
“My dear Frank, pray continue.”
He went on looking at her in the half teasing way which did not quite conceal a deep affection and respect. From her Edwardian fringe, rigidly controlled by a hair-net, to her black woollen stockings and beaded glacé shoes she was the perfect survival of a type now almost extinct
