"Not a thing, and I've gone through every bit and scrap of writing in the place. By the way, have you seen George lately?"
"Night before last. Why?"
"He seems to me to be in rather a queer state. I went around last night and he complained of being spied on or something."
"Spied on?"
"Followed about. Watched. Like the blighters in the 'tec stories. Afraid all this business is getting on his nerves. I hope he doesn't go off his rocker or anything. It's bad enough for Sheila as it is. Decent little woman."
"Thoroughly decent," agreed Wimsey, "and very fond of him."
"Yes. Works like Billy-oh to keep the home together and all that. Tell you the truth, I don't know how she puts up with George. Of course, married couples are always sparring and so on, but he ought to behave before other people. Dashed bad form, being rude to your wife in public. I'd like to give him a piece of my mind."
"He's in a beastly galling position," said Wimsey. "She's his wife and she's got to keep him, and I know he feels it very much."
"Do you think so? Seems to me he takes it rather as a matter of course. And whenever the poor little woman reminds him of it, he thinks she's rubbing it in."
"Naturally, he hates being reminded of it. And I've heard Mrs. Fentiman say one or two sharp things to him."