(22)Which was it? Mrs. Bast didn't know for certain either. Theyoung gentleman was dead. That she was sure. She had readhis name in the papers.There was the cook now, Mildred, Marian, some such name asthat - a red headed woman, quick tempered like all her sort, butkind, too, if you knew the way with her. Many a laugh they hadhad together. She saved a plate of soup for Maggie; a bite ofham, sometimes; whatever was over. They lived well in thosedays. They had everything they wanted (glibly,, jovially, with thetea hot in her, she unwound her ball of memories, sitting in thewicker arm chair). There was always plenty doing, people in thehouse, twenty staying sometimes, and washing up till long pastmidnight.Mrs. Bast (she had never known them; had lived in Glasgowat that time) wondered, putting her cup down, whatever they hungthat beast's skull there for? Shot in foreign parts no doubt.It might well be, said Mrs. McNab, wantoning on with hermemories; they had friends in eastern countries; gentlemenstaying there; and cookhad tomadkecurriesdishes for them; she had seen themonce through the dining room door (she crept up behind the Frenchgirl who waited at table). Sehe could see them now sittinng atdinner, twenty she dared say all in their jewellery, and shestayed to help wash up might be till after midnight.Ah, said Mrs. Bast, they'd find it changed. She leant outof the window. She watched her son Georgecuttingscything the grass.They might well ask, what had been done to it? seeing how old
