"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.

"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