“Oh no, not quite,” said Randall. “I have several times known you actually to think before you spoke. Occasionally you even show signs of a certain quickness of intellect. I admit that during your adolescence I had no hope of you at all, but you've improved a lot, my precious.”
“I am glad,” said. Stella. “Of course, you've taken such an interest in my progress, haven't you? I expect, if I only knew it, all your visits to the Poplars this last year have been really to see me.”
“Well, I imagine you don't suppose I came to see your mother, do you?”
Stella blinked at him. “You came to see uncle!”
“Good God!” said Randall. He took her arm above the elbow, and propelled her towards the door. “Not one of your intellectual days, my love. Let us go in to lunch.”
Chapter Eleven
Stella drove herself home to Grinley Heath, profoundly meditating on her cousin Randall's astonishing words. She had received them with surprise and suspicion, and had consequently assumed a defensive, unapproachable attitude. Randall had made no attempt to pursue the subject, but had taken her in to luncheon, and regaled her on lobster a la Newburgh, and an excellent Chablis. Stella, who had eaten no meals away from the Poplars since her uncle's death, frankly enjoyed herself, and managed to forget the troubles clustering about the family until coffee was brought into the room. Some chance words of Randall's recalled them to her then, and her face clouded, and she said with a sigh that it was beastly having murders in the family, because it was like a black cloud hanging over one.
“Everybody suspects everybody else,” she said. “And though uncle was horrid to people, it isn't any better in any way now that he's dead. I mean, take me, for instance. Uncle made it practically impossible for me to marry Deryk while he was alive, and that was beastly, but as soon as he died and I could marry Deryk, it all started to go wrong.”
“Now please don't fall into a sickening mood of selfirity,” said Randall dampingly. “You have been a charming companion during lunch, and not one thought of your late swain has crossed your head. You are not in (lie least heartbroken, so it is no use trying to get me to utter facile expressions of sympathy. I am not even remotely sorry for you.”
“I have eaten your salt,” said Stella with dignity, “so I can't say what I should like to.”