Ah, this delicious night air,' she said, luxuriously sniffing in the coolness. 'Night air and gardening are the great tonics. There is nothing so stimulating as bare contact with rich mother earth. You are never so fresh as when you have been grubbing in the soil - black hands, black nails, and boots covered with mud.' She gave her great jovial laugh.' I'm a glutton for air and earth,' she said. 'Positively I look forward to death, for then I shall be buried and have the kind earth all round me. No leaden caskets for me - I have given explicit directions. But what shall I do about air? Well, I suppose one can't have everything.'("Mrs. Tamworth")

— E.F. Benson

Georgie, I've got it," she said. "I've guessed what it means." Now though Georgie was devoted to his Lucia, he was just as devoted to inductive reasoning, and Daisy Quantico was, except himself, far the most powerful logician in the place." What is it, then?" he asked." Stupid of me not to have thought of it at once," said Daisy. "Why, don't you see? Pepin is Auntie's heir, for she was unmarried, and he's the only nephew, and probably he has been left piles and piles. So naturally they say it's a terrible blow. Wouldn't do to be exultant. They must say it's a terrible blow, to show they don't care about the money. The more they're left, the sadder it is. So natural. I blame myself for not having thought of it at once...

— E.F. Benson

Her my, when she was not otter-hunting, could be very sarcastic, and he had a clear month of Her my in front of him, without any otter-hunting, which, so she had informed him, was not possible in August. This was mysterious to Georgie, because it did not seem likely that all otters died in August, and a fresh brood came in like caterpillars. If Her my was here in October she would otter-hunt all morning and snore all afternoon, and be in the best of tempers, but the August visit required more careful steering.

— E.F. Benson

It was getting very clear then (and during this week Rissole naturally thought of nothing else) that Lucia designed a longer residence in the garish metropolis than she had admitted. Since she chose to give no information on the subject, mere pride and scorn of vulgar curiosity forbade anyone to ask her, though of course it was quite proper (indeed a matter of duty) to probe the matter to the bottom by every other means in your power, and as these bits of evidence pieced themselves together, Rissole began to take a very gloomy view of Lucia's real nature. On the whole it was felt that Mrs. Boucher, when she paused in her bath-chair as it was being wheeled round the green, nodding her head very emphatically, and bawling into Mrs. Autobus's ear-trumpet, reflected public opinion." She's deserting Rissole and all her friends," said Mrs. Boucher, "that's what she's doing. She means to cut a dash in London, and lead London by the nose. There'll be fashionable parties, you'll see, there'll be paragraphs, and then when the season's over she'll come back and swagger about them. For my part I shall take no interest in them. Perhaps she'll bring down some of her smart friends for a Saturday till Monday. There'll be Dukes and Duchesses at The Hurst. That's what she's meaning to do, I tell you, and I don't care who hears it." That was lucky, as anyone within the radius of a quarter of a mile could have heard it.

— E.F. Benson

I wonder why he hastened to tell us that George Serene was buried in the churchyard, and then added that naturally he was!'' It's the natural place to be buried in,' said I.'Quiet. That's just why it was hardly worth mentioning.' I felt then, just momentarily, just vaguely, as if my mind was regarding stray pieces of a jig-saw puzzle. The fancied ringing of the telephone bell last night was one of them, this burial of George Serene in the churchyard was another, and, even more inexplicably, the ladder I had seen under the trees was a third. Consciously I made nothing whatever out of them, and did not feel the least inclination to devote any ingenuity to so fortuitous a collection of pieces. Why shouldn't I add, for that matter, our morning's bathe, or the gorse on the hillside? But I had the sensation that, though my conscious brain was presently occupied with piqued, and was rapidly growing sleepy with the day of sun and sea, some sort of mole inside it was digging passages and connecting corridors below the soil. ("Expiation")

— E.F. Benson

Luck ever attends the bold and constructive thinker: the apple, for instance, fell from the tree precisely when Newton's mind was groping after the law of gravity, and as Diva stepped into her grocer's to begin her morning's shopping (for she had been occupied with roses ever since breakfast) the attendant was at the telephone at the back of the shop. He spoke in a lucid telephone-voice." We've only two of the big tins of corned beef," he said; and there was a pause, during which, to a psychic, Diva's ears might have seemed to grow as pointed with attention as a satyr's. But she could only hear little hollow quacks from the other end." Tongue as well. Very good. I'll send them up at once," he added, and came forward into the shop." Good morning," said Diva. Her voice was tremulous with anxiety and investigation. "Got any big tins of corned beef? The ones that contain six pounds."" Very sorry, ma'am. We've only got two, and they've just been ordered."" A small pot of ginger then, please," said Diva recklessly. "Will you send it round immediately?"" Yes, ma'am. The boy's just going out." That was luck. Diva hurried into the street, and was absorbed by the headlines of the news outside the stationer's. This was a favorite place for observation, for you appeared to be quite taken up by the topics of the day, and kept an oblique eye on the true object of your scrutiny...

— E.F. Benson

Marcia was silent a moment. Then a sort of softer gleam came into her angry eye." Tell me some more about her," she said. Adele clapped her hands." Ah, that's splendid," she said. "You're beginning to feel kinder. What we would do without our Lucia I can't imagine. I don't know what there would be to talk about."" She's ridiculous!" said Marcia relapsing a little." No, you mustn't feel that," said Adele. "You mustn't laugh at her ever. You must just richly enjoy her."" She's a snob!" said Marcia, as if this was a tremendous discovery." So am I: so are you: so are we all," said Adele. "We all run after distinguished people like--like ALF and Marcelle. The difference between you and Lucia is entirely in her favor, for you pretend you're not a snob, and she is perfectly frank and open about it. Besides, what is a duchess like you for except to give pleasure to snobs? That's your work in the world, darling; that's why you were sent here. Don't shirk it, or when you're old you will suffer agonies of remorse. And you're a snob too. You liked having seven--or was it seventy?--Royals at your dance."" Well, tell me some more about Lucia," said Marcia, rather struck by this ingenious presentation of the case."Indeed, I will: I long for your conversion to Luciaphilism. Now to-day there are going to be marvelous happenings...

— E.F. Benson

Miss Map moved towards the screen." What a delicious big screen," she said." Yes, but don't go behind it, Map," said Irene, "or you'll see my model undressing." Miss Map pretreated from it precipitately, as from a wasp's nest, and examined some of the studies on the wall, for it was more than probable from the unfinished picture on the easel that Adam lurked behind the delicious screen. Terrible though it all was, she was conscious of an unbridled curiosity to know who Adam was. It was dreadful to think that there could be any man in Tilling so depraved as to stand to be looked at with so little on... Irene strolled round the walls with her." Studies of Lucy," she said." I see, dear," said Miss Map. "How clever! Legs and things! But when you have your bridge-party, won't you perhaps cover some of them up, or turn them to the wall? We should all be looking at your pictures instead of attending to our cards. And if you were thinking of asking the Padre, you know..." They were approaching the corner of the room where the screen stood, when a movement there as if Adam had hit it with his elbow made Miss Map turn round. The screen fell flat on the ground and within a yard of her stood Mr. Hopkins, the proprietor of the fish-shop just up the street. Often and often had Miss Map had pleasant little conversations with him, with a view to bringing down the price of flounders. He had little bathing-drawers on..." Hullo, Hopkins, are you ready," said Irene. "You know Miss Map, don't you?" Miss Map had not imagined that Time and Eternity combined could hold so embarrassing a moment. She did not know where to look, but wherever she looked, it should not be at Hopkins. But (wherever she looked) she could not be unaware that Hopkins raised his large bare arm and touched the place where his cap would have been, if he had had one." Good morning, Hopkins," she said. "Well, Irene darling, I must be trotting, and leave you to your--" she hardly knew what to call it--"to your work." She tripped from the room, which seemed to be entirely full of unclothed limbs, and redder than one of Mr. Hopkins's boiled lobsters hurried down the street. She felt that she could never face him again, but would be obliged to go to the establishment in the High Street where Irene dealt, when it was fish she wanted from a fish-shop... Her head was in a whirl at the brazenness of mankind, especially womankind. How had Irene started the overtures that led to this? Had she just said to Hopkins one morning: "Will you come to my studio and take off all your clothes?" If Irene had not been such a wonderful mimic, she would certainly have felt it her duty to go straight to the Padre, and, pulling down her veil, confide to him the whole sad story. But as that was out of the question, she went into Below's and ordered four pounds of dried apricots.

— E.F. Benson

Miss Slicker waved her arms wildly." Oh, please stop, and let me guess," she cried. "I shall go crazy with joy if I'm right. It was an old Peerage, and so she found that Lady Deal was Helena Herman--""Whom she had seen ten years ago at a music hall as a male impersonator," cried Diva." And didn't want to know her," interrupted Miss Slicker." Yes, that's it, but that is not all. I hope you won't mind, but it's too rich. She saw you this morning coming out of your house in your bath-chair, and was quite sure that you were that Lady Deal." The three ladies rocked with laughter. Sometimes one recovered, and sometimes two, but they were re-infected by the third, and so they went on, solo and chorus, and duet and chorus, till exhaustion set in." But there's still a mystery," said Diva at length, wiping her eyes. "Why did the Peerage say that Lady Deal was Helena Herman?"" Oh, that's the last Lady Deal," said Miss Slicker. "Helena Herman's Lord Deal died without children and Florence's Lord Deal, my Lady Deal, succeeded. Cousins."" If that isn't a lesson for Elizabeth Map," said Diva. "Better go to the expense of a new Peerage than make such a muddle. But what a long call we've made. We must go."" Florence shall hear every word of it to-morrow night," said Miss Slicker. "I promise not to tell her till then. We'll all tell her."" Oh, that is kind of you," said Diva." It's only fair. And what about Miss Map being told?"" She'll find it out by degrees," said the ruthless Diva. "It will hurt more in bits."" Oh, but she mustn't be hurt," said Miss Slicker. "She's too precious, I adore her."" So do we," said Diva. "But we like her to be found out occasionally. You will, too, when you know her.

— E.F. Benson

Now Miss Map's social dictatorship among the ladies of Tilling had long been paramount, but sometimes signs of rebellious upheavals showed themselves. By virtue of her commanding personality these had never assumed really serious proportions, for Diva, who was generally the leader in these uprisings, had not the same moral massiveness. But now when Elizabeth was so exceedingly superior, the fumes of Bolshevism mounted swiftly to Diva's head. Moreover, the sight of this puzzling male impersonator, old, wrinkled, and mustached, had kindled to a greater heat her desire to know her and learn what it felt like to be Romeo on the music-hall stage and, after years of that delirious existence, to subside into a bath-chair and Suntrap and Tilling. What a wonderful life! . . . And behind all this there was a vague notion that Elizabeth had got her information in some clandestine manner and had muddled it. For all her levelheadedness and force Elizabeth did sometimes make a muddle, and it would be sweeter than honey and the honeycomb to catch her out. So in a state of brooding resentment Diva went home to lunch and concentrated on how to get even with Elizabeth.

— E.F. Benson