‘An excellent plan,’ said the aunt of Clovis coldly; ‘unfortunately I have got used to being called Jane myself. It happens to be my name.’

She cut short Mrs Riversedge’s flood of apologies by abruptly remarking:

‘The question is not whether I’m to call my maid Florinda, but whether Mr Brope is to be permitted to call her Florrie. I am strongly of opinion that he shall not.’

‘He may have been repeating the words of some song,’ said Mrs Riversedge hopefully; ‘there are lots of those sorts of silly refrains with girls’ names,’ she continued, turning to Clovis as a possible authority on the subject. ‘ “You mustn’t call me Mary—’ ”

‘I shouldn’t think of doing so,’ Clovis assured her; ‘in the first place, I’ve always understood that your name was Henrietta; and then I hardly know you well enough to take such a liberty.’

‘I mean there’s a song with that refrain,’ hurriedly explained Mrs Riversedge, ‘and there’s “Rhoda, Rhoda kept a pagoda,” and “Maisie is a daisy,” and heaps of others. Certainly it doesn’t sound like Mr Brope to be singing such songs, but I think we ought to give him the benefit of the doubt.’

‘I had already done so,’ said Mrs Troyle, ‘until further evidence came my way.’

She shut her lips with the resolute finality of one who enjoys the blessed certainty of being implored to open them again.

‘Further evidence!’ exclaimed her hostess; ‘do tell me!’

‘As I was coming upstairs after breakfast Mr Brope was just passing my room. In the most natural way in the world a piece of paper dropped out of a packet that he held in his hand and fluttered to the ground just at my door. I was going to call out to him “You’ve dropped something,” and then for some reason I held back and didn’t show myself till he was safely in his room. You see it occurred to me that I was very seldom in my room just at that hour, and that Florinda was almost always there tidying up things about that time. So I picked up that innocent-looking piece of paper.’

Mrs Troyle paused again, with the self-applauding air of one who had 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 near the yew.”

‘There’s 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. Yet he manages