"No, meaning only just what I said—just that. By the way, George, I wish you'd take time to look into Alys' real estate. Somebody ought to, and if you're really representing her——"
"Oh, good heavens!" he exclaimed impatiently, angered by her swift transition from his own to another's affairs. "I can't! I simply can't! Haven't you any conception of how busy I am?"
"I know, dear; I do know. But something must be done. The Health Department," she explained, "has sent in complaint after complaint, and Miss Eliot simply won't handle the property unless she's allowed to spend a lot setting things to rights. Alys says it's absurd; none of the other property owners out there are doing anything, and she won't. So, nobody's looking after it, and somebody should."
"Who told you all this?" he demanded. "Miss E. Eliot, I suppose."
His wife nodded. "And she's right," she added.
"Well, perhaps she is," he allowed. "I'll get Alien to act as her agent again. He's in with all the politicians; he ought to be able to stall off the department."
The words slipped out before he realized their import, but at Genevieve's wide stare of amazement he flushed crimson. "I mean—lots of these complaints are really mere red tape; some self-important employee is trying to look busy. A little investigation usually puts that straight."
"Of course," she acquiesced, and he breathed a sigh of relief. "That happens, too, but Miss Eliot says that the conditions out there are really dreadful."
"I'll talk to Allen," said George with an affectation of easy dismissal of the subject.
But Genevieve's mind appeared to have grown suddenly persistent. At dinner she again brought up the subject, this time directing her troubled gaze and troubling words at her guest.