“I am silenced,” bowed Randall.
She came to the foot of the stairs, and laid her hand on his arm for a moment as she passed him. “Try to be more tolerant, Randall dear,” she said thrillingly. “It is always such a mistake to condemn people's little foibles. One should try to understand, and to help them.”
She gave his arm a faint squeeze, and went on up the stairs. Randall looked anxiously at his sleeve, smoothed it, and said: “After that I feel that anything else would be in the nature of an anti-climax. I shall go home.”
“Your aunt is a very sweet woman,” Henry Lupton said warmly. “I admire her more than I can say.”
“So do I,” said Randall. “I always have.”
“And I think you might at least refrain from sneering at her!”
“That,” said Randall, “is the second time today I have been accused of sneering at my clever Aunt Zoë. I am quite guiltless, believe me. In fact, my admiration for her is growing by leaps and bounds.”
Henry Lupton stared at him suspiciously, but Randall only gave a tantalising smile, and walked across the hall to pick up his hat and gloves. “I suppose you'll come down for the Inquest?” Lupton said.
Randall yawned. “If nothing more amusing offers, I might,” he answered. “Not if it is going to be held at some unearthly hour of the morning, of course. Convey my respectful farewells to my aunts if you see them again.” With which casual recommendation he strolled out of the house, leaving his uncle half-indignant and half-relieved.
Contrary to the expectations of his relatives he did not put in an appearance at the Inquest next morning, a circumstance which caused his three aunts to form a whole-hearted if brief alliance. Mrs Lupton supposed him to be ashamed to look her in the face, but considered that decency should have compelled him to be present; Miss Matthews read in his absence a deliberate slight to his uncle's memory; and Mrs Matthews, more charitable, feared that there was a callous streak in his nature, due, no doubt, to his youth.