All for the Love of a Lady: A Col. Primrose Mystery. Leslie Ford

did, and he’d die if he knew I knew it. He told me he was bringing his sister to tea, because he knows that’s the one way to get me out of the house. But he didn’t know she’d gone to Middleburg and didn’t tell him because he doesn’t approve of anyone using gas for pleasure-driving. But her cook told mine. And then, my dear, he sneaked in the back way, and let the Swami in himself. Then, afterwards, he sneaked out again and came in the front door, pretending he’d just got home and his sister couldn’t come. So I pretended I’d just come in too.”

      She straightened her hat that had got knocked awry as she fished around under some sacks hunting for potatoes.

      “And of course, Grace, I don’t mind. I’ve so often thought Horace’s soul was like a newt’s, a nice newt’s, not really developed yet, and if he feels finally that he needs help he can make the house a rat race if he likes. I’m just too glad to think he’s at last embracing the fuller life.”

      She turned around. “Mr. Scofield, why do you charge twenty-three points for a can of pineapples?—Of course, my dear, I still don’t see what Cass Crane’s coming home had to do with it. Or why Horace had to say he didn’t know Cass was coming, when I distinctly heard him say so when he let the Swami out.—Here, dear, do you mind counting up and seeing if I have enough coupons to buy a can of sardines for the cat.”

      She was off, holding out her book to the harassed spinster taking a man’s place behind the counter. She waved to me as I went out with a pound of lamb for stew. Poor Mr. Scofield was trying to add up her points. There’ll have to be a psychiatric hospital for grocers and butchers, before the war is over, and Corinne Blodgett ought to help endow it handsomely.