Antonia was measuring out the ingredients for cocktails, but she lowered the bottle of gin she was holding, and directed one of her clear looks at Violet. “You don't care whether a thing's good to look at or not as long as it reeks of money,” she remarked.
Violet got up, quickly yet gracefully. “Well, what if I do like luxury?” she said, her low voice sharpening a little. “If you'd been born with a taste for nice things, and never had a penny to spend which you hadn't worked and slaved for, you'd feel the same!” One of her long, capable hands disdainfully brushed the skirt of her frock. “Even my clothes I make myself ! And I want - I want Paris models, and nice furs, and my hair done every week at Eugene's, and - oh, all the nice things that make life worth living!”
“Well, don't make a song about it,” recommended Antonia, quite unmoved. “You'll be able to have all that if Kenneth really does inherit.”
“Of course I inherit,” said Kenneth impatiently. “Hustle along with the drinks, Tony!”
Antonia suddenly put down the gin bottle. “Can't. You do it. I've suddenly remembered I was supposed to meet Rudolph for lunch this morning. I must ring him up.” She took the telephone receiver off the rest, and began to dial. “Did he ring me up, do you know?”
“Dunno. Don't think so. How much gin have you put in?”
“Lashings… Hullo, is that Mr Mesurier's flat? Oh, is it you, Rudolph? I say, I'm frightfully sorry about lunch. Did you wait for ages? But it wasn't my fault. It truly wasn't.”
At the other end of the telephone there was a tiny pause. Then a man's voice, light in texture, rather nasal, rather metallic, in the manner of modern voices, replied hesitatingly: “Is it you, Tony? I didn't quite catch — the line's not very clear. What did you say?”
“Lunch!” enunciated Antonia distinctly.
“Lunch? Oh, my God! I clean forgot! I'm devastatingly sorry! Can't think how I could ..”