“Wasn’t there a disturbance of some kind?” I asked.
“Oh, yes.” A cloud passed over his face. “There was. That wretched potty
woman, Miss Milsom, invented some sort of story. But it was the most
absolute rubbish. And Mr. Harrison came to see what utter nonsense it
all was. My dear man, the woman’s in an asylum.”
“There was no foundation for it, then?”
“None whatever.”
“Then why did your friend Munting take it lying down, and let himself be
kicked out of the house?”
“I wish you wouldn’t keep on calling him ‘my friend Munting,’ as if you
took us for a pair of undesirables,” he retorted, irritably. He picked
at his eggs and bacon, and pushed the plate away again.
“What else could he do but go? Your father was perfectly
unreasonable—wouldn’t have listened to the Archangel Gabriel. Anyway,
the more you protest about these matters, the less you’re believed.
Munting did the right thing—cleared out and married somebody else.
Couldn’t have a row with a man twice his age, you know.”