Red Money | Page 4

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 other woman vaguely. "Such nonsense, for I'm sure
no burglar would enter a house filled with nothing but Early Victorian
furniture."
"Well? Well? Well?" said Mrs. Belgrove impatiently.
"Clara Beeby thought that Garvington meant to shoot Noel."
"Why, in heaven's name! Because Noel is his heir?"
"I'm sure I can't help it if I've no children," said Lady Garvington,
going off on another trail--the one suggested by Mrs. 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.
You see, Noel loved Agnes before she married Hubert, and I believe he
loves her still, which isn't right, seeing she's married, and isn't half so
good-looking as she was. And Noel stopping at that cottage in the
Abbot's Wood painting in water-colors. I think he is, but I'm not sure if
it isn't in oils, and the--"
"Well? Well? Well?" asked Mrs. Belgrove again.
"It isn't well at all, when you think what a tongue Clara Greeby has,"

snapped Lady Garvington. "She said if Noel came to see Agnes by
night, Garvington, taking him for a burglar, might shoot him. She
insisted that he looked at Agnes when he was talking about burglars,
and meant that."
"What nonsense!" cried Mrs. Belgrove vigorously, at last having
arrived at a knowledge of why Lady Garvington had sought her. "Noel
can come here openly, so there is no reason he should steal here after
dark."
"Well, he's romantic, you know, dear. And romantic people always
prefer windows to doors and darkness to light. The windows here are so
insecure," added Lady Garvington, glancing at the facade above her
untidy hair. "He could easily get in by sticking a penknife in between
the upper and lower sash of the window. It would be quite easy."
"What nonsense you talk, Jane," said Mrs. Belgrove, impatiently. "Noel
is not the man to come after a married woman when her husband is
away. I have known him since he was a Harrow schoolboy, so I have
every right to speak. Where is Sir Hubert?"
"He is at Paris or Pekin, or something with a 'P,'" said Lady Garvington
in her usual vague way. "I'm sure I don't know why he can't take Agnes
with him. They get on very well for a married couple."
"All the same she doesn't love him."
"He loves her, for I'm sure he's that jealous that he can't scarcely bear
her out of his sight."
"It seems to me that he can," remarked Mrs. Belgrove dryly. "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--"
"Oh, I know what she says and what she wishes. She would like to get
Noel into trouble with Sir Hubert over Agnes, simply because he will
not marry her. As to her chatter about burglars--"
"Garvington's chatter," corrected her companion.
"Well, then, Garvington's. It's all rubbish. Agnes is a sweet girl, and--"
"Girl?" Lady Garvington laughed disdainfully. "She is twenty-five."
"A mere baby. People cannot be called old until they are seventy or
eighty. It is a bad habit growing old. I have never encouraged it myself.
By the way, tell me something about Sir Hubert Pine. I have only met
him once or twice. What kind of a man is he?"
"Tall, and thin, and dark, and--"
"I