“How very annoying, dear!”
Mrs. Betty waved her whip.
“I have had that cottage in mind for over a year. Some one must have told the selfish wretch that I was after it.”
“Strangely like spite, dear,” cooed the dove in pink.
“I wonder what the Murchisons want with the place? To make a summer beer-garden for their brats, perhaps.”
“Marley Down’s so bracing. I hear Jim Murchison has been overworking himself. Probably he intends spending his week-ends here.”
“Rather curious.”
Miss Gerratty’s blue eyes were too shallow for the holding of a mystery.
“I can’t see anything strange in it, Betty. Jim Murchison has that assistant of his, a finnicking little fellow in glasses, with a neck like a giraffe’s. Strange that they should have snapped up your particular cottage.”
“Oh, that’s just like Kate Murchison,” and Mrs. Betty’s brown eyes sparkled.