believe all the gossip you hear about people, nobody would be safe. He was a delightful young man and he would have made Phyllis perfectly happy. Instead of marrying him, she[p. 23] chose to go off with this—Jackson.” Lady Constance’s voice quivered. Greater scorn could hardly have been packed into two syllables. “After what has happened, I certainly intend to have nothing more to do with her. I shall not lend them a penny, so please do not let us continue this discussion any longer. I hope I am not an unjust woman, but I must say that I consider, after the way Phyllis behaved . . .” [p. 23] The sudden opening of the door caused her to break off. Lord Emsworth, mould-stained and wearing a deplorable old jacket, pottered into the room. He peered benevolently at his sister and his brother-in-law, but seemed unaware that he was interrupting a conversation. “‘Gardening As A Fine Art,’” he murmured. “Connie, have you seen a book called ‘Gardening As A Fine Art’? I was reading it in here last night. ‘Gardening As A Fine Art.’ That is the title. Now, where can it have got to?” His dreamy eye flitted to and fro. “I want to show it to McAllister. There is a passage in it that directly refutes his anarchistic views on . . .” “It is probably on one of the shelves,” said Lady Constance shortly. “On one of the shelves?” said Lord Emsworth, obviously impressed by this bright suggestion. “Why, of course, to be sure.” Mr. Keeble was rattling his keys moodily. A mutinous expression was on his pink face. These moments of rebellion did not come to him very often, for he loved his wife with a dog-like affection and had grown accustomed to being ruled by her, but now resentment filled him. She was unreasonable, he considered. She ought to have realised how strongly he felt about poor little Phyllis. It was too infernally[p. 24] cold-blooded to abandon the poor child like an old shoe simply because . . . [p. 24] “Are you going?” he asked, observing his wife moving to the door. “Yes. I am going into the garden,” said Lady Constance. “Why? Was there anything else you wanted to talk to me about?” “No,” said Mr. Keeble despondently. “Oh, no.”
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