C.E.M.S. today. Looking up a reference, I became so engrossed in Canon Shirley’s Reality that I haven’t got on as well as I should. What are you doing this afternoon, Griselda?”
“My duty,” said Griselda. “My duty as the Vicaress. Tea and scandal at four-thirty.”
“Who is coming?”
Griselda ticked them off on her fingers with a glow of virtue on her face. “ Mrs. Price Ridley, Miss Wetherby, Miss Hartnell, and that terrible Miss Marple.”
“I rather like Miss Marple,” I said. “She has, at least, a sense of humour.”
“She’s the worst cat in the village,” said Griselda. “And she always knows every single thing that happens—and draws the worst inferences from it.”
Griselda, as I have said, is much younger than I am. At my time of life, one knows that the worst is usually true.
“Well, don’t expect me in for tea, Griselda,” said Dennis.
“Beast!” said Griselda.
“Yes, but look here, the Protheroes really did ask me for tennis today.”
“Beast!” said Griselda again.
Dennis beat a prudent retreat and Griselda and I went together into my study.
“I wonder who we shall have for tea,” said Griselda, seating herself on my writing-table. “ Dr. Stone and Miss Cram, I suppose, and perhaps Mrs. Lestrange. By the way, I called on her yesterday, but she was out. Yes, I’m