"
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.
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