I should never have dreamed of describing Miss Marple as trusting.
“There’s been some fuss about that young artist, Mr. Redding, hasn’t there?” asked Miss Wetherby.
Miss Marple nodded.
“Colonel Protheroe turned him out of the house. It appears he was painting Lettice in her bathing dress.”
“I always thought there was something between them,” said Mrs. Price Ridley. “That young fellow is always mouching off up there. Pity the girl hasn’t got a mother. A stepmother is never the same thing.”
“I dare say Mrs. Protheroe does her best,” said Miss Hartnell.
“Girls are so sly,” deplored Mrs. Price Ridley.
“Quite a romance, isn’t it?” said the softer-hearted Miss Wetherby. “He’s a very good-looking young fellow.”
“But loose,” said Miss Hartnell. “Bound to be. An artist! Paris! Models! The Altogether!”
“Painting her in her bathing dress,” said Mrs. Price Ridley. “Not quite nice.”
“He’s painting me too,” said Griselda.
“But not in your bathing dress, dear,” said Miss Marple.
“It might be worse,” said Griselda solemnly.
“Naughty girl,” said Miss Hartnell, taking the joke broadmindedly. Everybody else looked slightly shocked.
“Did dear Lettice tell you of the trouble?” asked Miss Marple of me.