scandal seems so much worse under a roof,"
observed Clovis; "I've always regarded it as a proof of the superior
delicacy of the cat tribe that it conducts most of its scandals above
the slates."

"Now I come to think of it," resumed Mrs. Riversedge, "there are things
about Mr. Brope that I've never been able to account for. His income,
for instance: he only gets two hundred a year as editor of the
CATHEDRAL MONTHLY, and I know that his people are quite poor, and he
hasn't any private means. Yet he manages to afford a flat somewhere in
Westminster, and he goes abroad to Bruges and those sorts of places
every year, and always dresses well, and gives quite nice
luncheon-parties in the season. You can't do all that on two hundred a
year, can you?"

"Does he write for any other papers?" queried Mrs. Troyle.

"No, you see he specializes so entirely on liturgy and ecclesiastical
architecture that his field is rather restricted. He once tried the
SPORTING AND DRAMATIC with an article on church edifices in famous
fox-hunting centres, but it wasn't considered of sufficient general
interest to be accepted. No, I don't see how he can support himself in
his present style merely by what he writes."

"Perhaps he sells spurious transepts to American enthusiasts,"
suggested Clovis.

"How could you sell a transept?" said Mrs. Riversedge; "such a thing
would be impossible."

"Whatever he may do to eke out his income," interrupted Mrs. Troyle,
"he is certainly not going to fill in his leisure moments by making
love to my maid."

"Of course not," agreed her hostess; "that must be put a stop to at
once. But I don't quite know what we ought to do."

"You might put a barbed wire entanglement round the yew tree as a
precautionary measure," said Clovis.

"I don't think that the disagreeable situation that has arisen is
improved by flippancy," said Mrs. Riversedge; "a good maid is a
treasure--"

"I am sure I don't know what I should do without Florinda," admitted
Mrs. Troyle; "she understands my hair. I've long ago given up trying
to do anything with it myself. I regard one's hair as I regard
husbands: as long as one is seen together in public one's private
divergences don't matter. Surely that was the luncheon gong."

Septimus Brope and Clovis had the smoking-room to themselves after
lunch. The former seemed restless and preoccupied, the latter quietly
observant.

"What is a lorry?" asked Septimus suddenly; "I don't mean