Three
“N asty old cat,” said Griselda, as soon as the door was closed.
She made a face in the direction of the departing visitors and then looked at me and laughed.
“Len, do you really suspect me of having an affair with Lawrence Redding?”
“My dear, of course not.”
“But you thought Miss Marple was hinting at it. And you rose to my defence simply beautifully. Like—like anangry tiger.”
A momentary¹ uneasiness assailed² me. A clergyman of the Church of England ought never to put himself in theposition of being described as an angry tiger.
“I felt the occasion could not pass without a protest,” I said. “But Griselda, I wish you would be a little morecareful in what you say.”
“Do you mean the cannibal story?” she asked. “Or the suggestion that Lawrence was painting me in the nude³! Ifthey only knew that he was painting me in a thick cloak with a very high fur collar—the sort of thing that you could goquite purely⁴ to see the Pope in—not a bit of sinful flesh showing anywhere! In fact, it’s all marvellously pure.
Lawrence never even attempts to make love to me—I can’t think why.”
“Surely knowing that you’re a married woman—”
“Don’t pretend to come out of the ark, Len. You know very well that an attractive young woman with an elderlyhusband is a kind of gift from heaven to a young man. There must be some other reason—it’s not that I’m unattractive—I’m not.”
“Surely you don’t want him to make love to you?”
“N-n-o,” said Griselda, with more hesitation⁵ than I thought becoming.
“If he’s in love with Lettice Protheroe—”
“Miss Marple didn’t seem to think he was.”
“Miss Marple may be mistaken.”
“She never is. That kind of old cat is always right.” She paused a minute and then said, with a quick sidelongglance at me: “You do believe me, don’t you? I mean, that there’s nothing between Lawrence and me.”
“My dear Griselda,” I said, surprised. “Of course.”

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