“He didn't.” Antonio got off the table as Murgatroyd came into the studio, and glanced towards her brother. “If you've finished quarrelling, supper's ready.” She thought it over, and added conscientiously: “And if you haven't, it still is.”
Kenneth came towards the table. “I've made her cross again, haven't I, my lovely? Where's the oil and vinegar?”
“I'm not cross,” Violent said in a sad voice. “Only rather hurt.”
“My adored!” he said contritely, but with a gleam of his impish smile.
“Yes, that's all very well,” said Violet, taking her place at the table, “but I sometimes think you only care about my good looks.”
He flashed his brilliant, half-laughing, half-earnest glance at her. “I worship your good looks,” he said.
“Thank you,” replied Violet dryly.
“She isn't really so good-looking,” observed Antonio, wrestling with the joints of a cold fowl. “Her eyes are set a bit too far apart, for one thing, and I don't know if you've noticed, but one side of her face isn't as good as the other.”
“But look at that lovely line of the jaw!” Kenneth said, dropping the wooden salad spoon, and tracing the line in the air with his thumb.
“When you've quite finished, both of you!” Violet protested. She looked provocatively at Mesurier, seated opposite to her, and said: “Aren't they awful? Don't you think we're frightfully brave to marry them?”