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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 other woman vaguely.
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.
"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 "
Belgrove been able to read that countenance she would have seen satisfaction written thereon, and would probably have set down the expression to a wrong cause. In reality, Agnes was glad to think that Lambert's promise was being kept, and that he no longer intended to avoid her company so openly.
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.
She glanced at a near mirror and saw her own opulent, full-blown looks clothed in a pale-blue dinner-gown, which went so well as she inartistically decided, with her ruddy locks, Mrs. Belgrove considered that Miss Greeby looked like a paint-box, or a sunset, or one of Turner's most vivid pictures, but the heiress was very well pleased with herself.
Nevertheless, Mrs. Belgrove could not disguise from herself that her demise could not be postponed for many more years, and examined the faces of the other guests to see if they thought so too. If anyone did, he and she politely suppressed a doubtful look and applauded the suggestion of a fortune-telling expedition.
Belgrove's remark. "I'd be a happier woman if I had something else to attend to than dinners. I wish we all lived on roots, so that Garvington could dig them up for himself." "My dear, he'd send you out with a trowel to do that," said Mrs. Belgrove humorously. "But why does Garvington want to shoot Noel?" "Oh, he doesn't. I never said he did. Clara Greeby made the remark.
"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.
Leave this place if you wish to keep the secret of your birth from your wife. Lady Garvington and Mrs. Belgrove, and a lot of people from The Manor, are coming to the camp to get their fortunes told. You are sure to be spotted." "I shall keep myself out of sight," said Pine sullenly and suspiciously. "Some of your gypsy friends may let the cat out of the bag."
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