Campden,' Minks was saying
when they reached the door of La Poste. He stood aside to let the
others pass before him. He held the door open politely. 'No wonder you
chose them as the symbol for thought and sympathy in your story.' And
they climbed the narrow, creaking stairs and entered the little hall
where the entire population of the Pension des Glycines awaited them
with impatience.
The meal dragged out interminably. Everybody had so much to say.
Minks, placed between Mother and Miss Waghorn, talked volubly to the
latter and listened sweetly to all her stories. The excitement of the
Big Story, however, was in the air, and when she mentioned that she
looked forward to reading it, he had no idea, of course, that she had
already done so at least three times. The Review had replaced her
customary Novel. She went about with it beneath her arm. Minks,
feeling friendly and confidential, informed her that he, too,
sometimes wrote, and when she noted the fact with a deferential phrase
about 'you men of letters,' he rose abruptly to the seventh heaven of
contentment. Mother meanwhile, on the other side, took him bodily into
her great wumbled heart. 'Poor little chap,' her attitude said
plainly, 'I don't believe his wife half looks after him.' Before the
end of supper she knew all about Frank and Ronald, the laburnum tree
in the front garden, what tea they bought, and Albinia's plan for
making coal last longer by mixing it with coke.
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