''
Mrs. Troyle paused again, with the self-applauding air of
one who has detected an asp lurking in an apple-charlotte.
Mrs. Riversedge snipped vigorously at the nearest rose
bush, incidentally decapitating a Viscountess Folkestone
that was just coming into bloom.
``What was on the paper?'' she asked.
``Just the words in pencil, `I love you, Florrie,' and
then underneath, crossed out with a faint line, but
perfectly plain to read, `Meet me in the garden by the yew.'
''
``There _is_ a yew tree at the bottom of the garden,''
admitted Mrs. Riversedge.
``At any rate he appears to be truthful,'' commented
Clovis.
``To think that a scandal of this sort should be going on
under my roof!'' said Mrs. Riversedge indignantly.
``I wonder why it is that 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.
Pages:
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221