CHAPTER FORTYMary Lenton came through the hall to let her in. Nothing could possibly have been more inconvenient, but then Edna was one of those people who always did time her visits at the most inconvenient moment. She had a shopping-bag on her arm and was extracting from it three small account-books which she held out in a complaining manner.
“I really ought not to have undertaken anything to do with accounts. I remember I told you so at the time. I have no head for figures.”
“But you offered——”
“I am too kind-hearted,” said Edna in a fretful voice. “When I heard that Miss Smithson was ill, I know I said that I would carry on, but I really can’t make head or tail of her writing. So I thought I would come down and tell you it’s no use. Unless, of course, we can just go through them tog
