
In the intervals of summoning Umberto, Umbrella, and Uppish out of other people's gardens, Mrs. Midgeholme confided to her companion that although she had been invited to The Cedars to watch the tennis, and to take tea, she had been obliged to refuse. “For I don't mind telling you, Mr. Drybeck, that I doubt if I could trust myself.”
“Dear me!” said Mr. Drybeck, startled.
“Not,” said Mrs. Midgeholme, her eye kindling, “if I am expected to speak to Mr. Warrenby. And if he's there, which of course he will be, nothing would stop me giving him a piece of my mind! So I'm not going.”
“I am exceedingly sorry. I was unaware that there was any—ah—estrangement between you and Warrenby.”
“No, well, it only happened yesterday. Not but that I never have liked the man, and between you and me and the gatepost his behaviour to Lion during the War, when Lion was absolutely running the Home Guard, finished him for me! But that he could be cruel to dumb animals I did not suspect.”
“Dear, dear!” said Mr. Drybeck. “One of your dogs?”
“Ulysses!” said Mrs. Midgeholme. “Ulysses! I popped in to speak to that unfortunate niece of Mr. Warrenby's about the Conservative Whist Drive, and took the dear old fellow with me. That brutal man kicked him!”
