‘Oh, give over, Roddy,’ said Martin indulgently smiling. ‘You’re too funny.’
‘I hope your appendicitis is better?’ asked Judith politely.
‘Much better, thank you.’ He made a little bow.
Nobody had anything more to say. They were not very good hosts. They stood around, making no effort, idly fingering and dropping the tags of conversation she offered them, as if she were the hostess and they most difficult guests. As in the old days, they formed their oppressive self-sufficient circle of blood-intimacy with its core of indifference if not hostility to the stranger. Charlie was dead, but now when they were all gathered together she felt him weighing, drawing them further aloof; and she wished miserably that she had not come.
They were all casually engaged by themselves. Roddy was cleaning his pipe, Martin and Mariella playing with a spaniel puppy. It floundered on to Martin’s lap, and a moment after:
‘Oh, again!’ came Mariella’s clear little pipe. ‘What an uncontrolled chap he is! I’m sorry, Martin.’
‘It’ll dry,’ said Martin equably surveying his trousers. ‘It’s nothing.’
Julian had sat down at the piano and was strumming pianissimo. Roddy took up the tune and whistled it.
‘What shall we do?’ said Mariella. She went on rolling the puppy.
Julian turned round in his playing and looked at Judith. Gratefully she went over and stood beside him. By the piano, watching Julian’s hands, she was isolated with him and need not be afraid.