“Too many whiskies?” enquired Mr. Leyton cheerfully, shovelling salad on to his plate.
“Too much whisking and frisking altogether sergeant,” said Mr. Orly incisively, raising his head.
Mrs. Orly flushed and frowned at Mr. Orly.
“Don’t be silly Ley—you know how father hates dinner parties.”
Mr. Orly sighed harshly, pulling himself up as Miriam began a dissertation on Mr. Hancock’s crowded day.
“Ze got someone with him now?” put in Mrs. Orly perfunctorily.
“Wonderful man” sighed Mr. Orly harshly, glancing at his son.
“Have a bit of chicking Ro.”
“No my love no not all the perfumes of Araby—not all the chickens of Cheshire. Have some paté Miss Hens’—No? You despise paté?”