“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 know his appearance.  But his nature?”

“He’s jealous, and can be very disagreeable when he likes.  I don’t know who he is, or where he came from.  He made his money out of penny toys and South African investments.  He was a member of Parliament for a few years, and helped his party so much with money that he was knighted.  That’s all I know of him, except that he is very mean.”

“Mean?  What you tell me doesn’t sound mean.”

“I’m talking of his behavior to Garvington,” explained the hostess, touching her ruffled hair, “he doesn’t give us enough money.”