he can't take Agnes with him. They get on very well for a married couple."
"All the same she doesn't love him."
"He loves her, for I'm sure he's that jealous that he can't scarcely bear her out of his sight."
"It seems to me that he can," remarked Mrs. Belgrove dryly. "Since he is at Paris or Pekin and she is here."
"Garvington is looking after her, and he owes Sir Hubert too much, not to see that Agnes is all right."
Mrs. Belgrove peered at Lady Garvington through her lorgnette. "I think you talk a great deal of nonsense, Jane, as I said before," she observed. "I don't suppose for one moment that Agnes thinks of Noel, or Noel of Agnes."
"Clara Greeby says – "
"Oh, I know what she says and what she wishes. She would like to get Noel into trouble with Sir Hubert over Agnes, simply because he will not marry her. As to her chatter about burglars – "
"Garvington's chatter," corrected her companion.
"Well, then, Garvington's. It's all rubbish. Agnes is a sweet girl, and – "
"Girl?" Lady Garvington laughed disdainfully. "She is twenty-five."
"A mere baby. People cannot be called old until they are seventy or eighty. It is a bad habit growing old. I have never encouraged it myself. By the way, tell me something about Sir Hubert Pine. I have only met him once or twice. What kind of a man is he?"
"Tall, and thin, and dark, and – "
"I know his appearance. But his nature?"
"He's jealous, and can be very disagreeable when he likes. I don't know who he is, or where he came from. He made his money out of penny toys and South African investments. He was a member of Parliament for a few years, and helped his party so much with money that he was knighted. That's all I know of him, except that he is very mean."
"Mean? What you tell me doesn't sound mean."
"I'm talking of his behavior to Garvington," explained the hostess, touching her ruffled hair, "he doesn't give us enough money."
"Why should he give you any?" asked Mrs. Belgrove bluntly.
"Well, you see, dear, Garvington would never have allowed his sister to marry a nobody, unless – "
"Unless the nobody paid for his footing. I quite understand. Every one knows that Agnes married the man to save her family from bankruptcy. Poor girl!" Mrs. Belgrove sighed. "And she loved Noel. What a shame that she couldn't become his wife!"
"Oh, that would have been absurd," said Lady Garvington pettishly. "What's the use of Hunger marrying Thirst? Noel has no money, just like ourselves, and if it hadn't been for Hubert this place would have been sold long ago. I'm telling you secrets, mind."
"My dear, you tell me nothing that everybody doesn't know."
"Then what is your advice?"
"About what, my dear?"
"About what I have been telling you. The burglar, and – "
"I have told you before, that it is rubbish. If a burglar does come here I hope Lord Garvington will shoot him, as I don't want to lose my diamonds."
"But if the burglar is Noel?"
"He won't be Noel. Clara Greeby has simply made a nasty suggestion which is worthy of her. But if you're afraid, why not get her to marry Noel?"
"He won't have her," said Lady Garvington dolefully.
"I know he won't. Still a persevering woman can do wonders, and Clara Greeby has no self-respect. And if you think Noel is too near, get Agnes to join her husband in Pekin."
"I think it's Paris."
"Well then, Paris. She can buy new frocks."
"Agnes doesn't care for new frocks. Such simple tastes she has, wanting to help the poor. Rubbish, I call it."
"Why, when her husband helps Lord Garvington?" asked Mrs. Belgrove artlessly.
Lady Garvington frowned. "What horrid things you say."
"I only repeat what every one is saying."
"Well, I'm sure I don't care," cried Lady Garvington recklessly, and rose to depart on some vague errand. "I'm only in the world to look after dinners and breakfasts. Clara Greeby's a cat making all this fuss about – "
"Hush! There she is."
Lady Garvington fluttered round, and drifted towards Miss Greeby, who had just stepped out on to the terrace. The banker's daughter was in a tailor-made gown with a man's cap and a man's gloves, and a man's boots – at least, as Mrs. Belgrove thought, they looked like that – and carried a very masculine stick, more like a bludgeon than a cane. With her ruddy complexion and ruddy hair, and piercing blue eyes, and magnificent figure – for she really had a splendid figure in spite of Mrs. Belgrove's depreciation – she looked like a gigantic Norse goddess. With a flashing display of white teeth, she came along swinging her stick, or whirling her shillalah, as Mrs. Belgrove put it, and seemed the embodiment of coarse, vigorous health.
"Taking a sun-bath?" she inquired brusquely and in a loud baritone voice. "Very wise of you two elderly things. I am going for a walk."
Mrs. Belgrove was disagreeable in her turn. "Going to the Abbot's Wood?"
"How clever of you to guess," Miss Greeby smiled and nodded. "Yes, I'm going to look up Lambert"; she always spoke of her male friends in this hearty fashion. "He ought to be here enjoying himself instead of living like a hermit in the wilds."
"He's painting pictures," put in Lady Garvington. "Do hermits paint?"
"No. Only society women do that," said Miss Greeby cheerfully, and Mrs. Belgrove's faded eyes flashed. She knew that the remark was meant for her, and snapped back. "Are you going to have your fortune told by the gypsies, dear?" she inquired amiably. "They might tell you about your marriage."
"Oh, I daresay, and if you ask they will prophesy your funeral."
"I am in perfect health, Miss Greeby."
"So I should think, since your cheeks are so red."
Lady Garvington hastily intervened to prevent the further exchange of compliments. "Will you be back to luncheon, or join the men at the coverts?"
"Neither. I'll drop on Lambert for a feed. Where are you going?"
"I'm sure I don't know," said the hostess vaguely. "There's lots to do. I shall know what's to be done, when I think of it," and she drifted along the terrace and into the house like a cloud blown any way by the wind. Miss Greeby looked after her limp figure with a contemptuous grin, then she nodded casually to Mrs. Belgrove, and walked whistling down the terrace steps.
"Cat, indeed!" commented Mrs. Belgrove to herself when she saw Miss Greeby's broad back disappear behind the laurels. "Nothing half so pretty. She's like a great Flanders mare. And I wish Henry VIII was alive to marry her," she added the epithet suggesting that king, "if only to cut her head off."
CHAPTER II.
IN
