ery one. I wish my
mother hadn't insisted that I should attend cooking classes."

"What on earth has that to do with it?"

"To do with what?" asked Lady Garvington absentmindedly. "I don't know
what you're talking about, I'm sure. But mother knew that Garvington was
fond of a good dinner, and made me attend those classes, so as to learn
to talk about French dishes. We used to flirt about soups and creams and
haunches of venison, until he thought that I was as greedy as he was. So
he married me, and I've been attending to his meals ever since. Why,
even for our honeymoon we went to Mont St. Michel. They make splendid
omelettes there, and Garvington ate all the time. Ugh!" and the poor
lady shuddered.

Mrs. Belgrove saw that her companion was meandering, and would never
come to the point unless forced to face it, so she rapped her knuckles
with the lorgnette. "What about Clara Greeby?" she demanded sharply.

"She's a cat!"

"Oh, we're all cats, mewing or spitting as the fit takes us," said Mrs.
Belgrove comfortably. "I can't see why cat should be a term of
opprobrium when applied to a woman. Cats are charmingly pretty animals,
and know what they want, also how to get it. Well, my dear?"

"I believe she was in love with Noel herself," ruminated Lady
Garvington.

"Who was in love? Come to the point, my dear Jane."

"Clara Greeby."

Mrs. Belgrove laughed. "Oh, that ancient history. Every one who was
anybody knew that Clara would have given her eyes--and very ugly eyes
they are--to have married Noel Lambert. I suppose you mean him? Noel
isn't a common name. Quite so. You mean him. Well, Clara wanted to buy
him. He hasn't any money, and as a banker's heiress she is as rich as a
Jew. But he wouldn't have her."

"Why wouldn't he?" asked Lady Garvington, waking up--she had been
reflecting about a new soup which she hoped would please her husband.
"Clara has quite six thousand a year, and doesn't look bad when her maid
makes her dress in a proper manner. And, talking about maids, mine wants
to leave, and--"

"She's too like Boadicea," interrupted Mrs. Belgrove, keeping her
companion to the subject of Miss Greeby. "A masculine sort of hussy.
Noel is far too artistic to marry such a maypole. She's six foot two, if
she's an inch, and her hands and feet--" Mrs. Belgrove shuddered with a
gratified glance at her own slim fingers.

"You know the nonsense that Garvington was talking; about shooting a
burglar," said the oth