“When did you hear?” Edwin asked. “It isn’t in this afternoon’s paper.”
“I’ve only just heard. He died at four o’clock.”
She had come up immediately with the news as fresh as orchard fruit.
“And the Duke of Clarence is no better,” she said, in a luxurious sighing gloom. “And I’m afraid it’s all over with Cardinal Manning.” She made a peculiar noise in her throat, not quite a sigh; rather a brave protest against the general fatality of things, stiffened by a determination to be strong though melancholy in misfortune.
Three.
Maggie suddenly entered, hatted, with a jacket over her arm.
“Hello, auntie, you here!” They had already met that morning.
“I just called,” said Mrs Hamps guiltily. Edwin felt as though Maggie had surprised them both in some criminal act. They knew that Mr Heve was dead. She did not know. She had to be told. He wished violently that Auntie Hamps had been elsewhere.
“Everything all right?” Maggie asked Edwin, surveying the table. “I gave particular orders about the eggs.”