“Thanks,” she said.
“You really ought not to give your sketches away,” said Violet, overhearing this interchange. “I mean, of course, as a general rule. They may become quite valuable one day.”
“Who cares?” said Kenneth, wiping his brushes.
Leslie flushed, and said gruffly: “Sorry. I didn't think.”
He smiled lovingly at her, but said nothing. Violet got up, and shaking out her skirt, said graciously: “Oh, naturally, it's different with such an old friend as you, dear. Shall I pour out, Tony, or would you rather?”
“Anyone can pour out as far as I'm concerned,” said Antonia, with complete indifference. “We may as well have the loaf in while we're about it, Murgatroyd. I'll come and get it.”
She went out and was followed in a few moments by Leslie Rivers, who came into the kitchen, and said unhappily: “I hate her and hate her.”
Neither Antonia nor Murgatroyd experienced the least difficulty in interpreting this remark. Murgatroyd set the loaf down on the wooden bread-board with a thud. “Her!” she said darkly. “Doing the hostess all over our flat! A beauty, is she? Well, handsome is as handsome does, and brown eyes are what I never did trust and never will, not without more reason than I've had yet.”
“I shouldn't mind - at least not nearly as much - if only I thought she'd look after him and understand about his painting,” pursued Miss Rivers. “But I can't see that she cares about anything except being admired, and having the best of everything.”
“Ah!” said Murgatroyd, emerging from the pantry to collect an errant knife, “still waters run deep. You mark my words!”