“Yes, mum. Elizabeth’s upstairs with them now, mum.”
“Why isn’t the lamp in the hall lit?”
“I’m sorry, mum. I forgot it, mum.”
“Go and light it, please.”
The girl rattled a box of matches in her apron pocket; went out. Patricia leaned her stick against the wall; drew off her gauntlets; re-arranged the tea-tray. Through the door, which Fanny had left open, she heard Peter’s, “Mrs. Jameson not come in yet, Fanny?” and the girl’s answer, “Yes. She’s just come in.” . . .
The two cousins were sitting in armchairs by the fireplace. They rose as Patricia entered. Francis said, “Good evening, Pat”; Peter, “Hallo, old thing.”
“Why didn’t you ask for the lamp?” asked Patricia.
“Forgot all about it,” said Peter.
“And the room smells like a public-house.”
“You always say that, Pat.” Francis plopped back into his chair. “It’s Peter’s fault, not mine. He ought to give up cigars now he’s out of the business. Besides, he’ll ruin his lungs. . . .”