“Then you had no business to take my intentions for granted,” retorted Mrs. Rust. “What the dickens did you mean by it?”
“I told him ...” continued the gardener, almost suffocating in the grasp of his own cleverness, “that obviously you could take no notice of so vague a scheme. Ninety-nine women out of a hundred, I said, would do as you were doing.”
“You had better have minded your own business,” interrupted Mrs. Rust wrathfully. “And you had better mind it now. I shall do exactly what I like with my money, no matter what the other ninety-nine women would do.”
“I was afraid you would be annoyed by my speaking like this,” said the gardener humbly. “It is only natural.”
“Stuff and nonsense. Do you know that the priest is shocked by his suspicions about you and your suffragette?”
“I don’t mind,” said the gardener. “Being a priest, I suppose he is paid to be shocked sometimes. I don’t object to being his butt.”
“Good,” said Mrs. Rust. “Then you don’t continue to assert that she is your wife.”
“I can’t be bothered to continue to assert it,” said the gardener.
“Good,” said Mrs. Rust.
The gardener felt that the reward of the successfully unscrupulous rogue was within his reach. Lying in a good cause is a lovely exercise. The warm feeling of duty begun surged over him. He had justified his presence on board the Caribbeania, he had been true to Samuel Rust. The suffragette was not drowned. The blue sea was all round him. There was little else to be desired.