He responded in kind, and they kept up an interchange of light badinage throughout the meal. Attempts to draw the other two into the conversation were not very successful. Kenneth had a glowering look on his face, which Violet could always conjure up by flirting with another man; and Antonia, when appealed to by Violet to assure Mesurier that she didn't look marvellous in red, but, on the contrary, positively haggish, replied with such disastrous frankness that the topic broke off like a snapped thread.
“You're an artist, aren't you?” said Rudolph hastily. “No,” said Kenneth.
“Well, I may not be an artist as you highbrows understand it -”
“You aren't. You can't draw.”
“Thank you, dear. But I do make a living out of it,” said Violet sweetly. “As a matter of fact I do poster-designs and commercial work, Mr Mesurier. I found I had a sort of knack” - Kenneth sank his head in his hands and groaned - “a sort of knack,” repeated Violet, “and I suppose my stuff caught on. I've always had a sense of colour and line, and -”
“Oh, darling, do shut up!” begged Kenneth. “You've got about as much sense of colour and line as Tony's bull-terriers.”
Violet stiffened. “I don't know if you're trying to annoy me, but —'
“My angel, I wouldn't annoy you for the world, but if only you'd just be, and not talk!” begged Kenneth.
“I see. I'm to sit mum while you air your views.”
“She can't possibly not talk at all, Kenneth,” said Antonia reasonably. “What he means is, Don't talk Art.”