s looking this way; can't you see?"

"As if I cared," laughed Miss Greeby, pushing out her full lower lip in
a contemptuous manner. However, for reasons best known to herself, she
held her peace, although she would have scorned the idea that the hint
of her hostess made her do so.

Lady Garvington saw that her guests were all chattering with one
another, and that the men were getting ready to leave for the day's
shooting, so she went to discuss the dinner in the housekeeper's room.
But all the time she and the housekeeper were arguing what Lord
Garvington would like in the way of food, the worried woman was
reflecting on what Miss Greeby had said. When the menu was finally
settled--no easy task when it concerned the master of the house--Lady
Garvington sought out Mrs. Belgrove. That juvenile ancient was sunning
herself on the terrace, in the hope of renewing her waning vitality,
and, being alone, permitted herself to look old. She brisked up with a
kittenish purr when disturbed, and remarked that the Hengishire air was
like champagne. "My spirits are positively wild and wayward," said the
would-be Hebe with a desperate attempt to be youthful.

"Ah, you haven't got the house to look after," sighed Lady Garvington,
with a weary look, and dropped into a basket chair to pour out her woes
to Mrs. Belgrove. That person was extremely discreet, as years of
society struggling had taught her the value of silence. Her discretion
in this respect brought her many confidences, and she was renowned for
giving advice which was never taken.

"What's the matter, my dear? You look a hundred," said Mrs. Belgrove,
putting up her lorgnette with a chuckle, as if she had made an original
observation. But she had not, for Lady Garvington always appeared worn
and weary, and sallow, and untidy. She was the kind of absent-minded
person who depended upon pins to hold her garments together, and who
would put on her tiara crookedly for a drawing-room.

"Clara Greeby's a cat," said poor, worried Lady Garvington, hunting for
her pocket handkerchief, which was rarely to be found.

"Has she been making love to Garvington?"

"Pooh! No woman attracts Garvington unless she can cook, or knows
something about a kitchen range. I might as well have married a soup
tureen. I'm sure I don't know why I ever did marry him," lamented the
lady, staring at the changing foliage of the park trees. "He's a pauper
and a pig, my dear, although I wouldn't say so to ev