"Oh, I don't suspect him - What's his name? Hailes? - of an eye to your spoons," Mrs. Gregory Moffat said to her husband's brother; "but I've said a hundred times, George, that I don't see why you should turn your house into an asylum. What claim has he?"
George Moffat said: "Everyone has claims of one sort or another," with his large air of peaceable and majestic obstinacy. He had argued the matter too often.
"Precisely," Mrs. Moffat snapped in her high, convicting voice. "I suppose he writes, or something. You'd do much more good if you did some work of your own" (George made a placid and amused gesture of negation) "instead," Mrs. Moffat finished, "of wasting all your time and most of your money on these creatures. You know they usually turn out rank impostors."
She cast meaning glances, first at her husband, then at Mrs. Henwick. Her husband, Gregory Moffat, beamed through gold-rimmed spectacles.