“You interrupt me,” said Georgie. “I was telling you. I know he went to Harrod’s afterward and walked there, because he and Lucia were dining with me and he said so. So the house must have been close to Harrod’s, quite close I mean, because it was raining, and if it had been any reasonable distance he would have had a taxi. So it might be Knightsbridge.”
Mrs. Quantock put on her gardening-gloves again.
“How frightfully secretive people are,” she said. “Fancy his never having told you where his aunt’s house was.”
“But they never spoke of her,” said Georgie. “She’s been in that nursing-home so many years.”
“You may call it a nursing-home,” observed Mrs. Quantock, “or, if you choose, you may call it a post office. But it was an asylum. And they’re just as secretive about the property.”
“But you never talk about the property till after the funeral,” said Georgie. “I believe it’s to-morrow.”
Mrs. Quantock gave a prodigious sniff.
“They would have, if there hadn’t been any,” she said.
“How horrid you are,” said Georgie. “How——”
His speech was cut off by several loud sneezes. However beautiful the sleeve-links, it wasn’t wise to stand without a coat after being in such a heat.