ingenuity to identify as the late crimson-lake. She would have to be pleasant with Diva, for much as that perfidious woman might enjoy telling her where this furtive bridge-party had taken place, she might enjoy even more torturing her with uncertainty. Diva could, if put to it, give no answer whatever to a direct question, but, skilfully changing the subject, talk about something utterly different.
“The crimson-lake,” said Miss Mapp, pointing to the basket. “Hope it will turn out well, dear.”
There was rather a wicked light in Diva’s eyes.
“Not crimson-lake,” she said. “Jet-black.”
“Sweet of you to have it dyed again, dear Diva,” said Miss Mapp. “Not very expensive, I trust?”
“Send the bill in to you, if you like,” said Diva.
Miss Mapp laughed very pleasantly.
“That would be a good joke,” she said. “How nice it is that the dear Contessa takes so warmly to our Tilling ways. So amusing she was about the commissions Figgis had given her. But a wee bit satirical, do you think?”
This ought to put Diva in a good temper, for there was nothing she liked so much as a few little dabs at somebody else. (Diva was not very good-natured.)
“She is rather satirical,” said Diva.
“Oh, tell me some of her amusing little speeches!” said Miss Mapp enthusiastically. “I can’t always follow her, but you are so quick! A little coarse too, at times. isn’t she? What she said the other night when she was playing Patience, about the queens and kings, wasn’t quite—was it? And the toothpick.”
“Yes. Toothpick,” said Diva.
“Perhaps she has bad teeth,” said Miss Mapp; “it runs in families, and Mr. Wyse's, you know—We’re lucky, you and I.”
