“Don't let that deter you, my love. I have eaten salt—and very little else—at the Poplars, but it has not so far affected my power of speech.”
Stella watched him make the coffee, and said: “Well, I wasn't pitying myself, if you want to know. All the same, it gives one a jolt to discover that a person you—you thought you could utterly depend on has—well, feet of clay.”
Randall removed the spirit-lamp from under the machine, and transferred his gaze to Stella's face for a moment. “Did you really think your amorous doctor would prove a tower of strength in adversity? How trusting girls are!”
“The trouble is there isn't anyone we can turn to,” Stella said. “Uncle Henry is no use, and Guy isn't old enough, besides being—well, anyway, he's not the type. And Mr Rumbold's all very well, but he isn't like someone in the family; and Owen thinks the whole thing is bad form, and doesn't want to be mixed up in it.”
“And Randall is a snake in the grass, and would only sneer at you,” said Randall, stirring the coffee in the top of the machine.
Stella looked faintly startled. “You would too,” she said. “I wasn't thinking about you, though.”
“Another of your little errors, darling. You had better start thinking about me. I am now the head of this lamentable family.”
“What's that got to do with it?”
“Oh, quite a lot,” said Randall. “As head of the family I propose to see this thing through.”
“How nice of you!” said Stella. “That ought to help a lot. I expect if the police take it into their heads to arrest any of us you'll float in like a fairy godmother and clear up the whole case?”