He stopped when he reached the tea-table.
"Where's Ronnie?" he said, and he spoke as if he had been running for many miles.
"My husband is in the studio," replied Helen, with gentle dignity.
"What's he doing?"
"I believe he is playing his 'cello."
"Oh, lor! That wretched Infant! Is he all right?"
"So far as I know."
"What time did he get here?"
"At half-past four."
The dishevelled young man glanced at the clock.