There is a natural sequence in fools, as in all others of God's creatures. Aunt Amelia came in a good second.
"Oh, yes, Humphrey," she bleated, in that woolly-mutton voice which fitted her as does sodden mist a marshy formless hill. "Is there any news about the emerald?"
"There is hardly likely to be, Amelia," said her brother, as tartly as he could be got to say anything, for long years of suave politician's make-believe had untartled his tongue.
"I thought," said Aunt Amelia in self-defense, "that some servant might have found it and told you."
"Well, they have not," said her brother, shortly; and there was silence.
The journalist opened his mouth—which he should not have done—and began rather too loudly, and in too high a pitch:
"What I think, you know ..." and then stopped suddenly—which put him in no better case.
What Victoria Mosel would have said nobody knew, for she took her breakfast in bed—always. But Marjorie had come down in the midst of this, and spoke sharply. She had slept little and her temper was on edge.
"Oh, that's enough about the emerald!" she said. "What's the good of talking of it now?" Then she gave one sweeping look around, like a searchlight trying to spot a boat, and betook herself to the jam.
The one who said nothing was the young racing man with the emerald in his trousers pocket. He was not sure of it—he touched its pin point two or three times furtively to make certain the gem had not dropped out; and then he began, by way of clearing the air, to talk to the learned Professor about indifferent things.