“Well, those may not be the words you used. But the idea never came into my head all on its own.”
This was highly plausible. Tremendous ideas regarding revenues and tariffs found their way unaided into Mr. Windrom’s head, but not ideas having to do with illicit oeillades.
“If you deliberately choose to distort my words!” said Mrs. Windrom.
“I don’t choose to distort anything; I was only looking—Here I am like ‘my son John’ and it’s going on for eight.”
Mrs. Windrom tranquilly fished a pump from under a discarded garment which had been allowed to fall to the floor.
“Have you your handkerchief?”
Mr. Windrom nodded and followed his wife out to the balcony, which overlooked the hall. He was rubbing his hands together in anticipation of a cocktail when his wife seized his arm.
A tall, elderly woman in a trailing gown of rusty black crossed the balcony with a slow stride and descended the stairs. She had large black eyes, a high nose, and tightly drawn white hair streaked with black.
“Lady Macbeth!” whispered Mr. Windrom, tapping his wife’s arm and making a face like some sixty-year-old schoolboy. “Mum’s the word, eh? De mortuis——”
Mrs. Windrom was nettled. “What I can’t make out,” she said, “is how a squat little doctor could have a sister like that!”