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 every 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.