“I did not say that.”
“Well, what can be worse than intoxication—that is the only thing worse that I know of—unless murder. Do you mean that he has murdered someone?”
“I will not let you drag me into a quarrel,” said Venetia; “you are putting things into my mouth. I think mad extravagance is worse than intoxication, inasmuch as it is committed by reasonable people uninfluenced by drugs or alcohol. I think insults levelled at inoffensive people are worse than the wildest deeds committed under the influence of that demon alcohol.”
“Who are the inoffensive people who have been insulted?”
“Good gracious—well, of course you don’t know—you have not had to interview people.”
“Sir Pleydell Harcourt for instance, who had sixteen pianos sent to him only last week, to say nothing of pantechnicon vans and half the contents of Harrods’ and Whiteleys’, so that Arlington Street was blocked, simply blocked, the whole of last Friday.”
“Did he say Arthur had sent them?”
“He had no direct proof—but he knew. There was no other man in London would have done such a thing.”
“Did you send them, Ju-ju?”