“I’m quite sure if you think I’ll do.”
“It’s just for somebody to be there with the nurses. If Violet should by any chance make some sort of scene you can ring us up. But I’m sure she won’t. She needn’t even know you are there.”
And so it was arranged. P. C. Martin, no longer in his armchair, stared fixedly at a portrait of a Victorian Lamprey. Lord Charles went off for his interview with Alleyn. Frid did her face; the twins looked gloomily at old Punch es; Charlot, having refused to go to bed until the interviews were over, put her feet up and closed her eyes.
“Every moment,” said Henry, “this room grows more like a dental waiting parlour. Here is a particularly old Tatler, Robin. Will you look at it and complete the picture?”
“Thank you, Henry. What are you reading?”
“The Bard. I am reading ‘Macbeth.’ He has a number of very meaty things to say about murder.”
“Do you like the Bard?”
“I suppose I must, as quite often I find myself reading him.”
“On this occasion,” Stephen said. “I call it bad form t-to read ‘Macbeth.’ ”
“‘Night thickens,’ ” said Frid in a professionally deep voice.