Exercise in quarrel only made Ada’s voice the clearer and more shrill. It rose now to the highest points of a not inconsiderable compass. But Beatrice continued to write, and by resolute silence put a limit to her sister’s railing. A pause had just come about, when the door was thrown open, and in rushed Fanny, hatted and gloved from a walk.
‘He’s dead!’ she said excitedly. ‘He’s dead!’
Beatrice turned with a look of interest. ‘Who? Mr. Lord?’
‘Yes. The blinds are all down. He must have died in the night.’
Her cheeks glowed and her eyes sparkled, as though she had brought the most exhilarating news.
‘What do I care?’ said Mrs. Peachey, to whom her sister had addressed the last remark.
‘Just as much as I care about your affairs, no doubt,’ returned Fanny, with genial frankness.
‘Don’t be in too great a hurry,’ remarked Beatrice, who showed the calculating wrinkle at the corner of her eye. ‘Because he’s dead, that doesn’t say that your masher comes in for money.’
‘Who’ll get it, then?’
‘There may be nothing worth speaking of to get, for all we know.’