“Nasty old cat,” said Griselda, as soon as the door was closed.
She made a face in the direction of the departing visitors and then looked at me and laughed.
“Len, do you really suspect me of having an affair with Lawrence Redding?”
“My dear, of course not.”
“But you thought Miss Marple was hinting at it. And you rose to my defence simply beautifully. Like—like an angry tiger.”
A momentary uneasiness assailed me. A clergyman of the Church of England ought never to put himself in the position of being described as an angry tiger. However, I trusted that Griselda exaggerated.
“I felt the occasion could not pass without a protest,” I said. “But Griselda, I wish you would be a little more careful in what you say.”
“Do you mean the cannibal story?” she asked. “Or the suggestion that Lawrence was painting me in the nude! If they only knew that he was painting me in a thick cloak with a very high fur collar—the sort of thing that you could go quite purely to see the Pope in—not a bit of sinful flesh showing anywhere! In fact, it’s all marvellously pure. Lawrence never even attempts to make love to me—I can’t think why.”
“Surely knowing that you’re a married woman—”
“Don’t pretend to come out of the ark, Len. You know very well that an attractive young woman with an elderly husband is a kind of gift from