Murgatroyed sniffed loudly, and set down a dish with unneccessary violence. “The idea.” she said, “Anyone'd think it was a funeral party.”
Constraint descended on the two visitors. Violet folded her lovely mouth primly, and cleared her throat; Rudolph Mesurier fingered his tie and said awkwardly: “Frightful thing about Mr Vereker. I mean - it doesn't seem possible, somehow.”
Violet turned gratefully and favoured him with her slow, enchanting smile. “No, it doesn't, does it? I didn't know him, but it makes me feel quite sick to think of it. Of course I don't think Ken and Tony realise it yet - not absolutely.”
“Oh, don't they, my sweet?” said Kenneth derisively.
“Kenneth, whatever you felt about poor Mr Vereker when he was alive, I do think you might at least pretend to be sorry now he's dead.”
“It's no use,” said Antonia, spearing olives out of a tall bottle. “You'd better take us as you find us, Violet. You'll never teach Kenneth not to say exactly what he happens to think.”
“Well, I don't think it's a good plan,” replied Violet rather coldly.
“That's only because he said that green hat of yours looked like a hen in a fit. Besides, it isn't a plan: it's a disease. Olive, Rudolph?”
“Thanks.” He moved over to the far end of the studio, where she was seated, perched on a corner of the diningtable. As he took the olive off the end of the meat-skewer she had elected to use for her task, he raised his eyes to her face, and said in a low voice: “How did it happen? Why were you there? That's what I can't make out.”
She gave him back look for look. “On account of us. I wrote and told him we were going to get married, thinking he'd be pleased, and probably send us a handsome gift.”