"My husband does not commune with Nature, he kills slugs," I retorted. "Besides, none of the people you have mentioned have gardened for us. Elizabeth may fall into ecstasies of astonishment at the unique sight of a crocus in bloom in February, Alfred Austin may converse most charmingly with his verbenas and lavender, but they don't know where Dimbie has planted our celery."
She made a gesture of impatience.
"You don't seem to understand me, but I will endeavour to explain. You see, a few of us here have formed ourselves into a little band of——"
"Musicians," I said pleasantly. I was listening to Amelia's rendering of "Now we shan't be long," and had not quite followed the gist of Mrs. Winderby's conversation.
"I was not going to say 'musicians,'" she contradicted, "though musical people are members of our club. We are literary—I am literary" (a pause)—"artistic, scientific. We have formed ourselves into a club, and meet at each other's houses once a week."
"It sounds most interesting and improving," I observed. "I know a scientific man. He invented an aerodrome which killed his mother, and he goes about in a balloon, and——"
"We only have gentlemen in our club."
"But he is a gentleman. He is the great——"
She leaned forward and stared at me intently.
"What's the matter?" I asked, "an insect crawling over me?"