"That's that!" Simon swung back to his desk, a grim smile on his lips. "It always boils down to the same thing—they don't know what they're going to do about it. Let 'em rant all they please, in the end what I say goes!"
He resumed his correspondence, refreshed.
The only aftermath of this latest squall instantly apparent was the message Bates gave him as he announced dinner. Miss Lucy would not be down. She was indisposed.
"Another word for a bad disposition," Simon informed his sister-in-law, as they seated themselves at a table laid for two, indifferent to the fact that he was criticizing his wife within the hearing of a servant. "She'll have recovered by morning."
"We can't all have your sunny nature, Simon."
"Humph. You've heard about the roekus with Copley, I suppose?"
"Rumors have reached me." Miss Ocky peppered her soup composedly. "Need we discuss it now?"
"No. There's always the weather, if you prefer that."
The topic did not seem to appeal to her. They did not talk about the weather, nor anything else. A silence that would have been perfect but for the sound of a subdued champing from the head of the table was broken only once during the progress of the meal. Occupied though he was with his food, Varr gradually became conscious of a steady scrutiny that first puzzled, then irritated him. He glared at her angrily.
"What do you keep looking at me like that for?" he demanded.