“Why, whatever do you mean?” said Mrs Rumbold, who thought him a very smart, witty young man, and was prepared to be entertained.
“Merely the spectacle of my relatives assuming expression of decent grief,” said Randall.
“What things you do say, Mr Matthews! I'm sure they must feel it. I mean, it stands to reason, doesn't it, Ned?”
“Yes, I think it's rather unfair to assume that they none of them feel any regret,” replied Rumbold.
Randall raised his brows. “How long have you known my affectionate family?” he drawled.
Rumbold laughed. “Three years,” he answered.
“And your simple faith survives! I suppose you would be shocked if I ventured to ask which of my uncle's loving relatives is, in your mature judgment, the likeliest suspect?”
“Yes, I should,” said Rumbold sternly. “Nor do I think it's a question you ought even to ask yourself.”
Mrs Rumbold, lest Randall should feel snubbed, said hastily: “Well, I'm sure anyone might be forgiven for wondering, considering the way they were all at daggers drawn, half the time. I know one oughtn't to speak ill of the dead, but really, I do think that Mr Matthews was the limit! Talk about rude, overbearing people! Well, he fairly took the cake! And quarrelsome!”
“My dear, you had no reason to say so.”