MRS. DOWEY, the criminal, 'Kenneth writes to me every week.' There are
exclamations. The dauntless old thing holds aloft a packet of letters.
'Look at this. All his.'
The Haggerty Woman whimpers.
MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Alfred has little time for writing, being a bombardier.'
MRS. DOWEY, relentlessly, 'Do your letters begin "Dear mother"?'
MRS. TWYMLEY. 'Generally.'
MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'Invariable.'
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN. 'Every time.'
MRS. DOWEY, delivering the knock-out blow, 'Kenneth's begin "Dearest
mother.'"
No one can think of the right reply.
MRS. TWYMLEY, doing her best, 'A short man, I should say, judging by
yourself.'
She ought to have left it alone.
MRS. DOWEY. 'Six feet two-and a half.'
The gloom deepens.
MRS. MICKLEHAM, against her better judgment, 'A kilty, did you tell me?'
MRS. DOWEY. 'Most certainly. He's in the famous Black Watch.'
THE HAGGERTY WOMAN, producing her handkerchief, 'The Surrey Rifles is
the famousest.'
MRS. MICKLEHAM. 'There you and the King disagrees, Mrs. Haggerty. His
choice is the Buffs, same as my Percy's.
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